


Expiration

by destieltothegrave



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Angst, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), Bi-Curious Dean Winchester, Bottom Dean, Castiel has done some shady shit, Drugs, Happy Ending, Humor, M/M, Magi Dean, Magic, Mentions of past suicidal thoughts, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Original Character(s), POV Castiel, POV Dean Winchester, Plot, Protective Cas, Redemption, Self-Worth Issues, Slow Burn, Smut, Spells and General Mayhem, Top Castiel, ex-criminal Cas, sam is kind of a douche
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-18
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-01-18 23:55:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 105,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12398859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destieltothegrave/pseuds/destieltothegrave
Summary: Born a Magi, a childhood accident gives Castiel abilities beyond what nature and sanity allow. Castiel is Gifted with the ability to see every human's death date, their ultimate expiration, just by a glance into their eyes. He's ruined countless lives escaping his own nightmarish reality, and some of the people he's wronged are after their pound of flesh. Living in solitude, working on his medical compositions, and atoning for his sins day-by-day is his life now, and one he's content with.Until a Magi shows up at his door, begging Castiel to save his critically injured brother, and when Castiel looks into his green eyes, he sees...nothing.Dean Winchester is a Magi by nature, a Slayer by trade. He doesn't blink twice before ripping apart the monsters who threaten their world, but relying on the help of a recluse with cold, haunted blue eyes and more power than any Magi should ever have?Dean is the exception to the rule that has dominated Castiel's life, and Cas might just be the answer to every prayer Dean's never known to make.





	1. Out of the Frying Pan, Into the Fire

**Author's Note:**

> I'll tag this fic as I go, 'cause some heavy topics come up occasionally, and if I ever miss anything, PLEASE don't hesitate to let me know. I've already written a considerable amount, so updates should be stable at around once or twice a week.  
> Now, please enjoy this fic I've been writing instead of studying, because who needs a bachelor's degree anyway?

_Variety is the spice of life_. Castiel underlines the sentence twice. Once for irony, twice for unintentional wit. He really ought to stitch the line on a pillow somewhere.

          The kettle whistles down the hall. Castiel replaces the real estate ad he’s been utilizing as a bookmark and swings his legs off the bed. He grimaces. The wood is cold beneath his feet, chilled from the dropping fall temperatures. He usually avoids casting thermostat spells, since they’ve a tendency to take a life of their own and either trap the heat in his apartment to suffocating levels, or frost icicles into his eyebrows, but if this decline continues, he might have to. Hypothermia doesn’t appeal.  

          The increasingly shrill shriek of the kettle spurs Cas to the kitchen. He flips the steaming mouth back, cutting off the noise, and snaps his fingers. The cupboard to the right of his head flies open, and he crooks his finger toward his Debussy mug. An overcast and gloomy morning like this one calls for soothing classics and…chamomile vanilla tea. As soon as the decision solidifies, the ceramic white jar on the counter rattles. It’s lid lifts only high enough to allow one teabag to escape and settle into his chosen mug. From there, Castiel waves at the kettle, and while it pours his tea, he goes in search of his slippers.

          Where did he wear those accursed things last? Certainly not in the cauldron room. Last time he made the mistake of forgetting an inanimate object inside for the night, he’d returned to discover a gargantuan teddy bear, weeping, swearing, and attempting to drown itself in the cauldron. The cleanup for that situation was nothing short of a disaster.

          Perhaps they’re in storage? The heavy metal door opens with a _snick-click_. Cas braces himself for the blast of hot, humid air, necessary to keep the magical ingredients from losing their potency. Jars line the shelves that stretch from wall-to-wall. The lower shelves he’d lined with wet ingredients for easy reach. Besides the hourglass shaped jars with colorful spices, there’s the stepladder and his woven handbasket. No slippers.

          Resigning himself to numb feet, Cas pads back to the living room. His tea steams cheerfully from its place on the coffee table. He drops onto the couch and curls his fingers around the handle. The musical notes on the mug begin to revolve, the soft melody of Debussy’s _Clair de Lune_ inviting him to hum along.

          Soon he’ll have to stop by Vulcan Vault to buy mareshade for the new potion. It’s been a series of sleepless nights and singed brows, and he still can’t influence the watery potion to congeal and thicken like they should. It can’t be the ingredients he’s using; those come straight from the Vault, and Charlie’s products are irrefutably the best outside of Asia. Maybe he’s not measuring the dilution drops evenly enough.

          The mug is long cold and silent by the time Cas finishes scribbling notes in the legal pad he keeps on the table. There’s officially nothing keeping him from donning his trench coat and departing for Banning Plaza.

          Except, of course, the overwhelming nausea that descends into his gut. Ridiculous. Weak. He’s charted the path to and from the Vault countless times. He could walk there blindfolded, which he’s seriously considered on more than one occasion. But the slim chance that a Keeper might stop him and demand identification is almost more frightening than the trip itself. It’s bad enough Cas doesn’t announce his designation by wardrobe, like most of the other black-robed Magi or gold cufflinked Gifted. His plain tan trench coat and bare wrists have drawn their fair share of curious glances, but most tend to chalk it up to disrespectful Mortal behavior and leave Castiel in peace. The only person who’d ever known better was Charlie Bradbury, the Gifted quirky redhead who owned Vulcan Vault and nearly keeled over when he’d gone to ring up one hundred and seventy-five items on his very first visit.

          She’d kept up a constant stream of conversation regarding the shop’s name-some Mortal film enterprise- while she rang him up. She accidentally brushed his hand while passing over the receipt, and Castiel was forced to look up from where his gaze was trained on the ground when she fell abruptly silent. A catatonic kind of wonder was gripping the girl. Her entire body trembled, beginning from the hand that touched Castiel. Her pupils blew, swallowing the whites of her eyes and startling Cas a step back.

          It hardly lasted a moment, and then she was blinking normal hazel eyes. “Wowza,” she said. “That’s a lot of power you’re packing there, dude.”

          He’d left quickly after that. On his return visits, he’d try to find times Charlie wasn’t working, but the girl was wily. She chatted with Castiel while packaging his orders each time, and after a month, Cas lost the last of his patience. She was friendly and kind, and never questioned why Cas refused to meet her eyes after their initial meeting.

          He’d straightened and glared, vindicated in the surprise brightening her eyes. Of course, the moment he met them, the numbers scrolled across his mind again, bold and conclusive.

          Charlie Bradbury’s death date.

          She had decades left, a long life to lead. Cas told her as much, and something clicked into place for her.

          “A Reaper,” she breathed. “That explains it.”

          Cas didn’t ask her to elaborate on what exactly it explained, too distracted correcting her. “Not a Reaper. I see date of death, not the method or the reasoning. I certainly don’t collect souls.” Charlie was the first person he’d told in years, and he was prepared for the question. The one they always thought they wanted to know.

          But Charlie only scribbled her personal phone number on the back of Castiel’s receipt and shoved it in one of the paper bags he was floating home. “That’s a shit hand you’ve been dealt, buddy. Then again, life’s a pretty shitty dealer, huh? I’m off at nine; invite me to dinner sometime.”

          Initially, Cas had worried it was some sort of flirtation and called Charlie to express his platonic attitude towards her, but she’d guffawed in his ear and informed him he was in possession of malfunctioning equipment.

          Suffice to say, Charlie is hardly why venturing into Vulcan Vault inspires a sour tang on his tongue. He shoves a palm-sized tin box with pills he’d made to cleanse the stomach upon ingestion. Just in case his body decides to test him.

          He reminds himself he _needs_ that mareshade. If he perfects this serum, he’ll possess the strongest, safest anti-inflammatory pain-killer on the continent. Kevin has sent photos of pale and drawn adults from the hospital constantly since Castiel made the mistake of sharing his latest undertaking with the Chief of Medicine. Altering the dosage to suit children will take him at least another month. He won’t make the mistake of handing over a drug before extensive testing, not after the disaster with the hemophiliac toddler and the blood thinners.

          He wrenches open the door and stuffs his hands into his trench coat. Walking past the dying garden, with its drooping sprouts, wilting peonies, and overgrown grass is depressing. When Cas bought his home, he’d been riding on the high of home-ownership and dreamed of a flourishing garden, where he could have his tea in the midst of sunshine, birds, and bees. He’d found ingredients for his potions that weren’t too difficult to plant and reveled in the cost-cutting measure of growing his work.

          But the day he finished planting the peonies, dirt firmly encrusted under his nails and enjoying the sense of accomplishment, his mailwoman came by. She’d walked up the short gravel path to the mailbox hanging beneath the outdoor light and complimented Castiel’s efforts, gushing about her own botanical experience. The heavy mail bag thumped against her leg as she walked away, and Cas had stared after her for a long time.

          Then he retrieved his mail delivered by a woman who would die in six days, and forgot his gardening dreams altogether.

          No matter. He’ll hire a Gifted with a green thumb. They litter the internet, so it shouldn’t be unreasonably difficult. And if he plants seedlings this month, there might be signs of growth by spring. Perhaps he’ll simply move his mailbox to the curb and enjoy the fruits of his hired help’s labor without fear of running into another soul.

          The trip to Vulcan Vault is much easier than usual. Perhaps the cold kept the usual bustling crowds of Banning Plaza from venturing outside and risking the wrath of the gloomy clouds. Whatever the reason, Castiel is in a rare good mood when he waves at Charlie. He activates the mesh and metal basket near the counter with a press of his thumb to the stimulation print. The basket follows him, floating beside his waist while he peruses Charlie’s latest acquisitions in exotic herbs. The prices are steep. Charlie stocks items from around the globe, and never distills it like a few swindlers Cas has made the mistake of giving his patronage.

          Regardless, money is hardly an issue. As horrendous as Castiel’s youth was, he has it to thank for his monetary comfort. And if he feels like a cheat sometimes, a dirty swindler himself, well-that’s for him to know.

          Cas loads his cart enough that it sinks to his knees, and he has to physically pick it up when he reaches the counter. Sitting on her high stool behind the register, Charlie doesn’t balk at the size of Castiel’s order. He’d briefly explained his Pursuit as a medical composer when Charlie began to jokingly-not-jokingly ask if he was a drug dealer.

          “Hey, Cas,” she greets him cheerfully, scanning the items with practiced speed. Cas lazily browses the informational Guides for the Young and Gifted pamphlets set out in front of the register. There’s a collection of ‘Ask Charlie!’ sex-positive pamphlets promising free NoNatal herbs and the latest in TipStop condoms for those who can’t afford it. “What’s the four-one-one?”

          “Pardon?”

          “Sorry, Mortal phrase. How’s it hanging?”

          “…Anatomically?”

          “Good gravy,” Charlie laughs with good-natured exasperation. At least, Castiel hopes it’s good-natured. Lately, his grasp of colloquialisms has descended into blissful geriatric ignorance levels. “How’re you doing, dude?”

          “Ah. I am well. How about you?”

          “I’m not dying,” Charlie cracks. She’s a font of morbid jokes, this woman, and Castiel barely refrains from rolling his eyes.

          She wraps the small herb jars in recyclable brown paper and carefully slots them into one of the six long rectangular boxes Castiel will be hauling home. He’s considered portaling them home ahead of him, but the fluctuating realms of time and space are fickle.

          Casiel asks about her latest spices and Charlie launches into a spiel on the merits of Moroccan soil and the undiluted magic in Nubian foliage that _ya just can’t find here by the frackin’ magic-sucking Pacific, Cas._

          When she’s prepared two weighty bags for him to carry- he made the mistake of levitating his bags through Banning Plaza once and suffered a substantial loss of profit when one was stolen midair- Charlie tucks a strand of her fiery red hair behind her ear and scrunches her nose. It’s a sign of an incoming interrogation. Cas groans internally, just in time for Charlie to prod him right under his collarbone with a ruler. “You didn’t come to movie night last week.”

          “I apologize,” Cas says dutifully. He _is_ sorry, sorry that Charlie harbors this futile hope that Cas will participate in her social life.

          “There’s another on Wednesday night.”

          Castiel nods like Charlie hasn’t invited him to every Wednesday movie night for the last two months.

          “I worry about you, Cas,” Charlie sighs, and the uncharacteristically somber shift in tone forces his attention from the buttons of his shirt back to her. “I’m your only friend, and you refuse to see me outside of your house or business hours of the store. You won’t let me introduce you to Gilda, you won’t come watch movies at my place, and the last time I visited you hadn’t slept in two days and you reeked of Rumrot.”

          “You seem to like this Gilda, correct?”

          “She’s the raddest,” Charlie affirms.

          “If I look into her eyes and find that she’s meant to perish in two weeks, would you want to know?”

          Charlie blinks in rapid-fire succession. Cas indulges a moment of guilt, but this is for her own benefit. The longer she perceives Castiel as simply a quirky member of society, she’ll invite him to more movie nights, more events he’ll have to refuse. More disappointment.

          “Uh…I don’t know, Cas,” she murmurs. “That’s a tough one.”

          “I am sparing you the ‘tough ones’ by withholding my presence.”

          Charlie’s crestfallen expression makes something uncomfortable twist in Castiel’s chest. He’d raged, rebelled, fought against this fate the universe had seen fit to thrust onto him. But there’s no more fight left within Castiel.

          “That’s an awfully lonely way to live, Cas,” Charlie whispers.

          Cas lifts his bags and aims what he hopes is a pacifying smile at this girl, the lone person in the world who cares for the kind of life he leads. “Life and death are quite similar in their loneliness, Charlie. Most people just don’t know it.”

          “Thanks for bumming me out, bruh!” Charlie calls on his way out, and he chuckles under his breath. Nothing will deter her, and Cas finds her constancy rather soothing.

          Foot traffic has picked up, and Cas has to train his gaze down while he navigates. At the age of twenty-seven, walking without watching has become his own personal song and dance, but he still gets muttered obscenities and ‘watch where you’re walking, asshole!’ thrown at him aplenty. Once upon a time, Cas would grind their faces into the gravel for it, but that time is long gone. He mumbles an apology and soldiers home.

          The tension seeps from him the moment he passes the wrought-iron gate closing off the front yard from the street. He kicks the gate shut behind him and stops at the front door long enough to blow a puff of air on the sensor by the spyhole. He’d opted for maximum security when he bought this home, forgoing the common full-body scanner for the specialized and expensive magic-detector equipment. Individual magic cannot be replicated or retrieved, making it a faultless security system. The kind of enemies Cas has demand nothing less than the best.

          The door clicks shut behind him. Cas deposits the bags on the kitchen island and leans against the counter, resting his forehead against the cool marble. It’s done. Another successful excursion outside, and without the nausea pills to boot.

          He’s in the middle of unpacking his herbs and reading the maintenance instructions Charlie scribbled when there’s a pounding knock on his door.

          Castiel jumps, the jar of Rose Odor tumbling to the floor. It shatters, splashing pink liquid onto his pristine white cabinets. At least it wasn’t the mareshade.

          There’s another frantic knock, convincing Cas it wasn’t his imagination conjuring the foreign sound. The door vibrates in time to Cas’s racing heart. He approaches the door as one would a viper poised to strike, gingerly peering through the spyhole.

          It’s a man he’s never seen before, shifting his weight from foot-to-foot and glancing over his shoulder. Grace, the magical backbone of his house, activates. A projection appears on Castiel’s side of the door, identifying the stranger as a Magi, classification unknown, twenty-three years of age. The name listed is unfamiliar.

          The door vibrates with another hard thud. This man isn’t planning to leave until Castiel answers, is he?

          Before he can think better of it, Castiel opens the door, throwing up a ward to prevent the man from crossing the threshold in the same instant. He trains his gaze on the man’s throat and barks, “May I help you?”

          “Are you Castiel?” he demands, despite the fact that he’s spent the better part of five minutes beating down Castiel’s door.

          “Indeed. And who are you?” As if he hadn’t just skimmed through his mother’s maiden name and his personal details a mere moment ago.

          “I’m Dean Winchester. I need your help, like _now_.” There’s an urgency in his voice that perplexes Castiel, because if this Dean knows his name, shouldn’t he know his classification?

          “My Pursuit is Medical Composition. I have a short supply of consumable potions, but I’m afraid if you’re in some sort of medical crisis, the hospital is-”

          “No, no, I need you to use your mojo to actively heal. Charlie said you knew how. Please, man, my brother’s in trouble and there’s not much time,” he pleads, and Castiel is so shocked to hear Charlie’s name that he slips and glances up.

          He meets green eyes filled with desperation and sees nothing.

          Castiel gasps, his grip on the doorknob tightening to the point of pain. Impossible. It’s impossible. He stares until there’s a green tint to his vision and he has to blink, but nothing changes.

          Where Dean Winchester’s death date should be, there is only green.


	2. Devoured

Chapter Two-Devoured

“Dude! C’mon, we gotta go!” Dean shouts, stirring Castiel from his stupor of disbelief. Right. This Magi’s brother is in trouble, and Charlie wouldn’t have sent him Castiel’s way if he was untrustworthy. There will be plenty of time to question the fabric of his existence later.

          “Where is he?” Castiel inquires, and brushes the protection ward aside. It tears like tissue paper.

          “Beige Motel. I drove here, I can get us there in fifteen.” Dean gestures for Cas to follow him out, who only acknowledges the ridiculous proposal with a quirk of his brow.

          “I believe portaling would be more efficient.”

          Dean frowns. “It’ll drain the shit out of you. I need you in tip-top shape, buddy.”

          “We’re both Magi. We can split the effort.” Cas isn’t about to reveal portalling hardly saps from his bountiful magical reserve.

          Clearly unhappy about the prospect, Dean glances between the street and Castiel. “I can help your brother faster if we portal,” Castiel reminds him, and that must cinch the deal for Dean, because he grinds his teeth and nods.

          Cas steps aside, allowing Dean entrance. He has a fleeting thought that Dean is the first person to enter his home aside from Charlie. Speaking of whom, Castiel is going to wring her neck for subjecting him to this.

          “After you.” Dean motions, and Castiel takes the cue to swipe his hand in a vertical slashing motion, tearing a fold into the continuum. Dean spreads his palms apart, opening the fold to fit two people.

          “Beige Motel?” Castiel repeats.

          “Yep.” Dean’s complexion has gone fairly green. A portalling fear, perhaps?

          Castiel’s the first to move into the swirling vacuum of colors. If he looks closely at anything in particular, he might decipher streets, bridges, monuments, rapidly passing locations of the world ensconced within this pocket of space.

          Dean’s rooted to the spot, nostrils flared wide. Castiel wishes he had time to whip up a Fear Not elixir to soothe Dean’s nerves. “We must go now.”

          “I’m comin’,” Dean grumbles. He inhales deeply and follows Cas into the portal. Cas slashes the air again, zipping the portal closed, and Dean murmurs, “Beige Motel, Room 232.”

          Cas wonders if he’s speaking aloud for Castiel’s benefit or if he is unaware that portals don’t require verbal instruction. Within seconds, Castiel’s stomach hollows, his skin stretches tight over his bones, and gravity becomes a distant memory. Colors burst across his vision, surging over him.

          The portal deposits them and vanishes. Castiel is on his feet, but Dean is kneeling, fist screwed into his sternum while he reintroduces his lungs to oxygen. Castiel’s ears pop from the atmospheric shift and he has to reorient himself in the cramped motel room they’ve landed in, but he’s fast to recover.

          Especially at the sight of a young man writhing in agony on the blood-soaked mattress.

          His limbs are jerking like a marionette with cut strings. There are long, bloody lines where nails had raked through flesh on the underside of his jaw. There’s no visible wound aside from the self-inflicted, but when Castiel places a firm hand on the boy’s forehead, the dark magic roiling inside him makes Cas wince. He ferrets out the make and model quickly.

          The boy’s eyes flash open at Castiel’s touch. They’re hazel.

          November 20th, 2077.

          Castiel relaxes. It would’ve been unpleasant had he found the boy was meant to die today, but he would have still endeavored to save him, however futile.

          “Well?” Dean appears at Castiel’s shoulder, looming over his brother. “What’s wrong with him?”

          “A Devourer.” Castiel’s tone is grim. The pain wracking his patient’s body must be unbearable. “His body is being liquefied from the inside out. From the progression, I would wager the Devourer is currently separating ligaments from muscle.”

          “Shit, shit, shit,” Dean chants, and the sheer terror there prompts Castiel to frown over his shoulder. Dean is pale, trying to hold down the boy’s leg as it kicks into the air. If his reflexes are intact, the Devourer hasn’t accessed critical nerves in his central nervous system.

          “He won’t die today,” Castiel says.

          “That’s the goal, so if you could get to the healing part, I’d appreciate it a whole bunch,” Dean snaps. The boy’s knee catches him in the chin, and he grunts, redoubling his efforts to pin his jerking muscles to the bed.

          Ah. So Charlie did not tell him everything.

          “There isn’t enough room in the motel,” Castiel decides, taking in the cramped space, abstract frames of nature on the peeling walls meant to give the space warmth and only succeeding in increasing the claustrophobia. “We need to portal him to my house.”

          “Are you insane? He’s in no shape to be portalled anywhere!”

          Dean’s right, but Castiel’s options are limited. “I need to release the Devourer from his body. It will attack us. Fighting it will be difficult in this room, and it may cause your brother more damage.”

          “Dammit. Damn it, Sammy, you fucking idiot,” Dean curses. His brother’s neck twists grotesquely, and Dean cries out, framing the boy’s skull to keep it steady. “Open the portal!”

          Castiel wraps his hand around the boy’s ankle, envelopes them within the crackling margins of the portal, and brings them home. Unfortunately, the bed does not portal with them, and Castiel barely has time to snap his fingers to slide his couch to catch the boy’s falling form. At least there are no actively bleeding wounds to stain his cushions.

          Although he’d expended no magic to portal, Dean has to clutch the couch to regain his balance. Castiel’s grateful for the dire situation that distracts Dean from noticing that Castiel isn’t the exhausted, limp mess he should be after mass portalling within such a short time span.

          Castiel approaches the boy. His gangly limbs barely fit the length of Castiel’s couch. “Please stand back.”

          Dean appears on the precipice of a protest, but a quelling glance from Cas has him scowling and shuffling back towards the kitchen.

          “You better fix him,” Dean warns. “You may be some kind of power keg Magi, but if you hurt my brother, I’ll rip your throat out.”

          He did notice Castiel’s lack of fatigue. Interesting.

          “Noted,” Castiel clips. He unfurls his hands and begins to run them in the air above Sam’s body, sweeping over his arms, legs, torso, his head. He draws the Devourer to the surface in painstaking inches, until Sam’s skin bubbles and his mouth falls open in a silent scream.

          Vaguely, he can hear Dean shouting, but Castiel is locked in a confrontation with the Devourer. Black tendrils of smoke seep from the boy’s nose and lips, coalescing into a gigantic mass.

          The rancid odor of rotten eggs billows from the shape, along with a stuttering hiss. The Devourer is warning him away from its prey.

          Castiel does not heed the warning.

          It attacks faster than anticipated, temporarily choking Castiel. The foul taste of meat gone bad coats his tongue, fills his lungs. The Devourer attempts to settle into him, just as Cas expected it would.

          Like an explosion, his magic washes over the intruder, surging through Cas in a bright tidal wave. It consumes the Devourer. The thing screams in Castiel’s head, trying to break free, but Castiel’s magic has sunk teeth into its prey, and it must be sated.

          When there’s nothing left of the Devourer, his magic laps away, and Castiel becomes aware of his surroundings again. He’s doubled over, arms wound tight around his stomach. Shaking the last of the fog, Cas straightens. Dean ignored his directive to stay away and is crouched by his brother’s head, but he’s gaping at Cas.

          “How the hell did you just do that?” he marvels. Castiel ignores him, studying the boy keenly. His pallor is still deathly pale, and Castiel is certain there’s significant internal damage, but it should not be terribly difficult for a hospital to fix him from here.

          He tells Dean as much, and is baffled when the man’s reaction is outright refusal. “A hospital won’t put him together right. You know the system, know medicine and care are distributed based on classification and Pursuit. Sam and I…we’re not ranked high enough. He’ll die waiting.”

          “I have an acquaintance at Seal Hospital. It’s the most advanced facility for many miles. He will take good care of Sam.”

          Dean shakes his head adamantly. “No offense, but I’m not trusting some ‘acquaintance’ who owes you one to keep my brother kickin’.”

          “I told you,” Castiel says, tendrils of frustration pulling at his patience. “Your brother will not die today.”

          “You don’t know that. Please, I can pay you, we won’t be any trouble. Please.” Dean is earnest, looking up at Castiel from his lowered position as one would pray to a heavenly angel above. The comparison is absurd; Castiel is no angel. But something tells him Dean Winchester is not a man who begs often, and for once, Castiel _wants_ to be the answer to someone’s prayers. To his vast dismay, he realizes he’s genuinely invested in helping this stranger with a blank expiration date and his brother. If nothing more than to discover exactly why Dean is the impossible exception to the rule.

          “Alright,” Cas concedes. Dean’s whoop and answering grin are oddly endearing.

          Castiel orders a bed suitable for his exceptionally tall patient, and within seconds of inputting his information, it materializes in the corner of his living room. Dean maneuvers it in front of the twelve-by-ten bay window on Castiel’s orders. Natural sunlight and exposure to fresh air will help Sam’s system heal.

          Although he’s unsteady on his feet, Dean tries to lift Sam from the couch. Curious, Castiel allows him to struggle for a bit. It’s becoming exceedingly clear that when it comes to his younger sibling, Dean Winchester’s protective instincts are second to none.

          When Dean’s fallen face-first into the couch for the third time, Castiel takes pity and brushes him aside. “Took you long enough,” Dean grumbles. “You gonna take his legs?”

          “I intend to take all of him, actually,” Cas replies. He draws magic to the tips of his fingers and flattens his hand beneath Sam’s shoulder. Sam’s body lifts in increments, until he’s floating like one of Castiel’s shopping carts. Dean follows the action with bare astonishment. Cas directs the magic to the bed, where it settles Sam comfortably in a nest of pillows and blankets.

          This time, his magic snaps back with a slight burn. A warning to slow down.

          “Startin’ to see why Charlie thought you were the guy to call,” Dean chuckles, but there’s a trace of unease that Cas can’t blame him for. He undoubtedly has questions.  

          Cas acknowledges the compliment with a grunt. The next two hours are spent casting a general regeneration charm over Sam, pilfering through his meticulously organized treatments, and scribbling a plan of care. Dean is hardly a silent observer, hounding Castiel with questions if he so much as coughs in Sam’s direction.

          “You already cast a regen spell. What’s the point of any of this stuff?” Dean gestures at the corked bottles on the counter.

          Castiel struggles against a wave of irritation. This is the longest he’s spent around another person in a number of years, and his tolerance is waning. Reminding himself the intrusive, noisy Magi is only concerned for his brother tamps his temper down. Barely. “The Rumrot is for his lacerations. The rest he needs to ingest, to siphon away any traces of the Devourer that may linger and continue to feed on him. Cleansing arteries, organs, and muscles from poisonous magic requires much more than a simple regeneration spell.” The last part comes out more derisive than Cas would have preferred.

          Dean picks the potions up, reading each label closely. Cas watches him a beat longer to ascertain he isn’t going to drop it before returning his attention to the plan of care. “Sam will need to be here at least a week, perhaps more. I’ve written out a medication schedule, and I will arrange the potions to limit confusion. The MealEat in the purple jar-no, don’t open it, please-will substitute nutrition in his body and keep him hydrated. Do you know how to take oral temperature?”

          Lifting a finger that Cas gets the sense isn’t the one he’d prefer to aim, Dean says, “I’m not an idiot. Fingertip under the tongue.”

          “I never said you are an idiot.”

          “Didn’t you?”

          Cas pinches the bridge of his nose. This is going to be a wildly unpleasant week. “I am simply explaining proper medical procedure to you, Mr. Winchester. I make potions, I don’t fix people. In this situation, we are both idiots, but we’re idiots with a common goal.”

          Glancing up from his legal pad, he finds Dean’s eyes narrowed speculatively, scrutinizing Castiel. For what? Dishonesty? What on earth could he possibly have to gain from this?

          Castiel thought he had the market cornered on paranoia, but it seems Dean Winchester might just have the lead.

          “Okay,” Dean says finally, loud and sudden. “You’re right. I’m just not used to needing help taking care of my brother. You’re doin’ us a solid, and we’re gonna get along this week for Sammy’s sake.”

          “Are we?” Cas snorts, then scowls. What the hell was that?

          Dean smirks. “Would you lookee here, the good doctor has a sense of humor somewhere under all that gloom and doom. Yeah, Cas, we’re gonna be best buds. Just you watch.”

         

 

 

          Castiel does not like disorder.

          Not because he’s a naturally tidy person. Quite the opposite; when a particular potion or spell grips his imagination, Castiel can dwell in his work for days on end, forgoing conventions like bathing or eating. There are legal pads scattered across his house, broken pens he hasn’t the heart to throw away, empty jars he needs to clean and disinfect for reuse, and books in every nook and cranny.

          But there is a method to his madness, and Dean is _ruining it._

He’s too afraid to go to bed, having already extracted Dean from his cauldron room (“Holy shit! I’m sweating like a whore in church!”), the supply room (“Whoa, man, you sure you ain’t runnin’ some kind of drug cartel?”), and the garage. Although the latter isn’t critically private, and Cas felt primitive masculine satisfaction when Dean admired his personal workout area, complete with matted floors, punching bag, weights, and leather bench with an adjustable weight beam. Dean had trailed his gaze over Cas lazily, slow and thorough enough to bring an unexpected flush to Castiel’s cheeks. “Woulda pegged you as a runner.”

          Cas spots the psychology book folded across his bedspread and can’t believe it was only this morning the most exciting thing on his mind was having his scar cream honorably mentioned in _Medical Magic Today._

          He’s got one leg inside his sweatpants when he hears a distant knock. He pauses, wobbling. Is that…

          “Cas! Someone’s at the door!” Dean hollers.

          Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. He finishes changing into the sweatpants and leaves his blue button-down on to stomp down the hall and into the living room. Dean’s peering through the spyhole, dressed in similar black sweatpants and a loose _Star Wars_ T-shirt. He’d portalled back to his apartment earlier, which he’d claimed was only a two hour drive away, to collect some clothing and toiletries. “It’s Charlie,” Dean informs him, and reaches for the door knob.

          “Stop!” Cas commands, closing the distance to the door and shouldering Dean aside. He falls back and glares. “What the hell? I told you, it’s Charlie!”

          “Or someone who’s wearing her skin,” Cas snaps. He places his palm on the door, and like this morning, a full-body scan sweeps unbeknownst over Charlie, and a hologram materializes beside Castiel. Charlie Bradbury, Gifted Gauge, twenty-two years old. No magical taint detected.

          “Holy shit,” Den says. “Is that a magic scanner?”

          “Clearly.” So long, politeness. Castiel’s patience has left the building. “I have high security measures in place for a reason.”

          He yanks open the door, interrupting Dean’s reply, and glowers at Charlie. To her credit, she’s biting her lip nervously and doing a phenomenal job of playing the part of guilt-ridden friend. “Hi, Cas.”

          “Charlie,” Cas returns curtly, and steps aside to allow her entrance.

          “Charlie!” Dean greets her with much more exuberance, sweeping her into a bear hug.

          “Can’t…oxygen…” Charlie’s muffled against Dean’s broad chest, but the message comes across and he gives her enough space to breathe. Meanwhile, Cas crosses his arms over his chest and waits for what better be the explanation of the century.

          Predictably, Charlie skids away from him and beelines toward Sam. “Holy crap. Is he gonna be okay?” She smooths the hair back from his forehead, turning genuinely fearful eyes to Cas.

          “He will live,” Cas says. Charlie exhales sharply, patting Sam’s cheek and wincing at the lacerations torn down his throat. “Good. That’s good.”

          Dean is watching their exchange with bewilderment. “How exactly do you two know each other?”

          “Cas is my bestest customer at Vulcan Vault. Practically keeps me in business. He tried to resist my friendship for a while, but look at this smile-can you say no to this smile? I think not. I give damn good friendship.”

          “And how do you know the Winchester brothers?” Cas asks, and he’d better hear one of them donated a kidney to her.

          “I grew up down the street from them.”

          “You could say she’s the kid sister we never wanted,” Dean adds, but his voice is light with affectionate teasing.

          “I see.” Although Castiel doesn’t. He really doesn’t. Perhaps he’s being insensitive or compassionless again, the emotional clothesline Castiel’s mother had loved to pin his issues onto. Not that he isn’t glad to have helped Sam Winchester; he’d briefly felt the boy’s magic when he was drawing out the Devourer, and it was pure and airy. But Castiel is hardly a nurse, and he fails to understand why he’s been put in the position to pretend.

          Although Dean’s oblivious to his mood, Charlie pales. “Anyone ever tell you you’re one scary dude, Cas?”

          He sighs. Scaring Charlie isn’t his intention; just guilting her into the ground. Shenanigans aside, she’s his friend. “Can we speak privately?”

          He gestures for Charlie to walk ahead of him. He’d reshaped the couch into a bed for Dean, and allowed Dean to PayPerMeal them dinner from the fastest magical delivery service in town. Dean should be comfortable and Castiel shouldn’t feel this odd shortcoming in his hospitality skills. Still, he turns back to remind Dean, “Feel free to eat anything in the kitchen if you get hungry. My home is open to you.”

          Dean acknowledges the invitation with a short nod and a muttered, “Thanks.” It might be Castiel’s antipathy towards having guests is mutual.

          When they’re alone in Castiel’s bedroom, Charlie immediately begins babbling. “He called me at like DEFCON levels of panic, Cas! What was I supposed to do? You’re the best medmage I know, and-”

          “Not a medmage,” Castiel interjects. “Medical Composition. Two different things.”

          “You know what I mean. What was I supposed to do? If it had been anyone but the boys, I wouldn’t have invaded your privacy. Do you forgive me? Pretty please with Reese’s pieces?” She clasps her hands in front of her chest and sticks out her bottom lip. Despite himself, Castiel’s lips turn up at the display.

          “I get dibs on any new shipments for the next year.”

          “Bargaining, Cas? Really? And doing it so badly, too. Three months.”

          “Six and you put in a request for the misa’a from Singapore.”

          They posture and stare each other down, but aversion to superfluous eye-contact aside, staring is Castiel’s bread and butter. Accepting defeat, Charlie huffs and sticks out her hand to shake. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

          “Splendid,” Cas hums.

          “What’re they still doing here, anyway? If you patched Sam up, shouldn’t he be at the hospital for recovery?”

          “He should be,” Castiel agrees. Sighing, he scrubs along the bridge of his noise and grudgingly continues, “But his brother believes treatment for unclassified Magi will endanger his brother’s health. I recommended Kevin, but he was insistent Sam remain in my care.”

          Charlie nods, not looking the least bit surprised. “Are they staying with you?”

          “Mhmm.”

          Dropping to the corner of Castiel’s bed, Charlie chews the corner of one nail. Somehow, Castiel doesn’t think it’s sympathy for his social plight that’s got her anxious. “What’s wrong?”

          “I…don’t know if I should say.” She’s going to gnaw her thumbnail bloody at this rate, so Cas smacks her hand away from her mouth. He doesn’t pressure her to tell him, because no one knows better than him that some secrets are not meant to be shared.

          “Your secrets are safe with me, if you choose to share them.”

          Again, she goes cagey, thumb flying to its place of honor between Charlie’s chomping teeth. Which only succeeds in making Cas absurdly curious. She glances at the door, then motions at her ear. A silent question.

          “No one’s listening,” he reassures her. “The walls are too thick.”

          “Good. ‘Cause you can’t mention any of this to Dean. You shouldn’t even treat him differently, because then he’ll figure out I told you something.”

          “Charlie, cut to the chase.”

          She sticks her tongue out, but she’s fast to fall somber. A rare color for Charlie. “Sam and Dean have had it tough, Cas. They had a real shitty childhood, and I got to witness it in full technicolor. Dean’s insanely protective of Sam. You think you hate having guests? Having to take care of a virtual stranger? Well, I can tell you for a fact that Dean hates it a million times more. He hates relying on anyone else when it comes to taking care of Sam, and he especially hates feeling like a burden. No one’s better at pretending than Dean Winchester, trust me. Underneath the surface, though, he’s a great guy with a good heart. I’m telling you this because if he’s going to be staying here while Sam finishes his beauty nap, I’m gonna need you two not to kill each other.”

          “I wasn’t going to kill him,” is all Cas can think to say. Acrid guilt burns the back of his throat. Dean hates being a burden, and the way Castiel’s been stomping and grumbling has made it no secret that he’s exactly that. These are Charlie’s friends, and although she didn’t explicitly say it, they’re her family. She wouldn’t risk his business- and he’d like to think his friendship- if they were anything less.

          Above everything else, they’re two people who need his help. Castiel spent the better portion of his life whining about his helplessness, his utter inability to alter fate or change outcomes. The universe finally presents him with a chance to be of use for once, and he’s spitting at it.

          “I’m gonna go talk to Dean,” Charlie interrupts his self-flagellation, patting Castiel’s cheek like she knows the kind of guilt-bomb she’s just dropped.

          “Don’t mention my…uh, Gift. I don’t want to deal with the questions.”

          “You mean the ones about how you’re a magical abomination and know when everyone’s gonna bite it?”

          “Yeah, those.”

          “Lips are sealed, Reaper.”

          “I am _not-_ ”

          “Yeah, yeah,” she calls, already bustling out the door. Cas falls back on the bed, exhaustion crashing down on him like a two-ton anvil. Healing Sam expended more energy than Castiel’s exerted in a while. The magic is there, but like a muscle that’s atrophied from disuse, Castiel needs to work it back to full strength before he goes around battling Devourers and creating a medical ward in his living room.

           In the meantime, he just has to hope his new visitors don’t spell disaster for the fragile peace he’s created.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates will probably be every Friday from here on out.  
> I know aspects of the universe are kind of confusing right now, but all will become clear with time and updates.


	3. Life, I Decree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a brief shift into Dean's POV, and from here on out, they'll be denoted by a line of '†' symbols. I wanted to use something more creative/ relevant, but that's not my area of expertise. Anyway, enjoy!

Chapter 3-Life, I Decree

Cas wakes up in a cold sweat.

          The nightmare teases the fringes of his memory, just out reach. The room is dark, and his armpits are painfully chafed. It takes a moment to remember falling asleep waiting on Charlie, and he fumbles to unbutton his shirt and toss it to the floor. He sighs in relief when the cool sheets caress his bare chest, undoing the damage done by rolling around in buttons and starch. Burrowing his nose to into his pillow, he waits for the thick fog of sleep blanketing his body to snuff out his consciousness.

          It doesn’t.

          Which is hardly a surprise. Resolve to be a kinder host or not, Castiel’s got strangers sleeping in his home. Charlie’s glowing endorsement is the only thing keeping Castiel from sleeping with a paralyzing powder in his pocket or a good old-fashioned steak knife under his pillow.

          Paranoia invites him to go check on Dean, and Castiel heeds it’s call with a groan. He doesn’t bother with a shirt, padding down the hall and only prying his sleep-crusted eyelids fully open upon arrival in the living room. Sam’s sleeping directly below the moonlight, highlighting his sallow skin and the labored rise and fall of his chest.

          Dean is a lump on the converted couch. The blankets are tangled at his feet, but he’s shivering, burrowing into the couch. His limbs are folded awkwardly beneath his body. Damn it, Cas might have to cast a thermostat spell on the house after all. He gets the feeling that Dean would rather freeze to death before bothering Castiel for an extra blanket.

          He’s about to flick his wrist to straighten the blanket over Dean, but stops mid-twist. If Dean’s got any kind of defensive charm on him, it might react badly to the most innocent brush of Castiel’s magic. Getting blown through the wall might be preferable to explaining why he was awkwardly watching Dean sleep. Why he’s _still_ watching him sleep.

          His vision adjusts to the darkness and bare illumination of the moonlight streaming from the bay window. Without Dean tracking his every movement, Castiel is free to truly examine the man for the first time. On the nose that had wrinkled at the smell of the Devourer are freckles, falling onto sun-kissed cheeks. His lashes are long and sooty, despite Dean’s hair being a light brown with a passing of gold. There’s a shadow of stubble growing on the cut line of his jaw. And his mouth...pink and full and somehow capable of giving life to a voice that matches Castiel’s in depth and timbre. Ignoring instructions from his logical brain, his feet carry him closer. There’s a scar behind the shell of Dean’s ear, thin and jagged, that twists behind his skull and ends at his neck. A scar like that would bleed quickly, and Cas is shocked to that its owner is still breathing.

          Castiel isn’t sure what alerts Dean to his presence. One second he’s crouching to get a closer-purely clinical, of course-glimpse of the scar, and the next the cold muzzle of a gun digs into the underside of his jaw.

          “Cas?” Dean asks, rough with sleep. He sits up and uses his free hand to rub a fist across his eyes. Castiel notices he doesn’t lower the gun until his gaze has found Sam and checked his welfare first. With a sheepish wince, Dean returns the gun to his lap. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

          He rubs the spot where the gun dug into him. “I startled you.”

          “Kinda. Did you need‘ta ask me something, or…” he trails off, clearly anticipating Castiel to have a reason available for why he was hovering over his unconscious form mere moments ago.

          Fortunately, Castiel fancies himself a decent crafter of bullshit. “I was pouring myself a glass of water and noticed you were cold. I wanted to check for a defensive amulet before I drew the blanket over you.” He wiggles his fingers towards the blankets now kicked into a bundle at Dean’s feet.

          Although he can’t be certain, he thinks Dean’s ears are red. “Oh. That was, uh, nice of you. I’m wearing a few defensive amulets, actually, so it’s probably smart you didn’t try anything.” He pauses, and quickly tacks, “Magically, I mean.”

          Taking pity on Dean’s obvious discomfort, Castiel motions to the gun. “Why do you carry a firearm? I thought those were reserved for Mortal-on-Mortal crime.”

          The tactic is effective. Dean snorts, embarrassment forgotten. “Usually, yeah. But just ‘cause most Magi think we’re indestructible don’t mean it’s true. This baby’s loaded with Grade A Eviscerate.”

          Castiel can’t help but be impressed. Eviscerate is incredibly difficult to acquire, considering its fast enough to shoot a Magi before they could spell the bullet aside, and once embedded in tissue, it pulses a poison that causes sepsis, systematically shutting down each organ in a span of three-hundred sixty seconds. The Council of Keepers had reached out to Castiel a few years ago requesting an antidote to Eviscerate, but Castiel was unsuccessful finding one that worked quickly enough to counteract the sepsis.

          “Then I’m quite glad you refrained from shooting me,” Castiel responds lightly. The question of Dean’s Pursuit hangs heavy between them, and Cas wishes he’d asked Charlie when he had the chance.

          “What time is it?” Dean mumbles, scrubbing his forehead with the back of the hand holding the gun. Castiel relays that it’s nearing dawn, unwilling to leave to check the exact time. Dean balances the gun in his palm before closing his fingers around length of the firearm. Magic pulses from Dean, and the gun shrinks, disappearing entirely. All that remains of the Magi-murdering weapon is a silver ring, which Dean promptly slides on his middle finger. Now that Castiel stops to take stock, Dean’s wearing a total of seven rings divided between both hands. Four on his right, three on his left. He wonders what nightmares the other six wield.

          _Who are you, Dean Winchester?_

          “I’ll let you get back to sleep.” Cas retreats toward Sam, pressing two fingers to his pulse point. He waits sixty seconds. Dean’s made no move to recline, still upright and watching Cas warily. Castiel finishes counting. “Write two-hundred BPM on the legal pad to your right, please.”

          “Sure thing.” Dean quickly complies, scrawling the information to the coffee table legal pad. His frown settles deeper when the pen stops moving. “Isn’t that slow? Like, fuckin’ coma levels of slow?”

          “Yes. But that’s to be expected. Sam’s body is healing itself, and his magic is diverting resources to where they’re needed. A faster heart rate would likely result in internal bleeding.”

          “Christ,” Dean breathes, and he looks caught between anger and grief. “When he wakes up, I’m going to kill him.”

          “I wouldn’t recommend that.” Tact keeps Castiel from investigating the circumstances surrounding Sam’s possession. The curiosity is almost unbearable, but Castiel refrains from asking primarily because he doesn’t believe Dean will tell him, and because he’s not blind. Dean’s suffering almost as much as the boy fighting for his life on the table. The only difference being one is numbed to the pain, and the other is struggling to contain it.

          Emotions. One thing Castiel’s never found a cure for. “Goodnight, Dean.”

          Dean tears his attention away from Sam long enough to flash Cas an uneasy smile. “Night, Cas.”

          Tossing and turning in his own bed, Castiel once again kicks himself for not interrogating Charlie better. One would have to be an imbecile not to immediately mark Dean as lethal. Forced politeness aside, there’s thinly veiled violence in his eyes, and he carries his body with a killer’s grace. Castiel considers himself a formidable fighter, and the fact that Dean’s gun was poised to kill him before he’d even so much as sensed him waking…

          Ironic, that after the security and the spells and the protection, it’s his own doing that invites danger into his sanctuary.

 

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**Dean**

To be fair, Dean’s day was already shot to shit when a portal opened up in the back of his car and dumped a bloody and busted Sam in the backseat.

            The hit was working was supposed to be simple. A beginner’s errand. Frankly, he was insulted to get the summons in the first place. Guess it serves his cocky ass right that the job ended up costing Dean a full layer of skin on his right foot and drained his magic close to nil.

            Then Sam, who Dean hasn’t seen in upwards of two years, falls in the backseat like a ton of bricks, reeking of dark magic.

            Day could only get worse with a start like that.

            He’s still not sure if it was lucky that Charlie knew this reclusive Magi who could help. Getting his address from her was like pulling teeth, and now Dean knows why.

            Willingness to help aside, there’s just something off about this guy.

            Dean’s met his share of weirdos. Comes with the job. No dental, but tons of crazy-ass motherfuckers with too much time and too little sense.

            That’s not the problem with Castiel (which, by the way, what the fuck kind of Olden Realm name is that). He has sense in spades. To the casual observer, he’d just seem like your average Magi, albeit abnormally intense.

            But dammit, there’s something about the dude that Dean can’t shake. Not necessarily in a bad way. After all, most Magi wouldn’t take kindly to another Magi aiming a barrel full of Eviscerate in their face. But Cas hasn’t kicked them out yet, and he’s agreed to doctoring Sam, so whatever’s sideways about the fella can’t be too terrible.

            After all, its his fault Sam’s in this mess. They’re both stubborn bastards who can hold one hell of a grudge, but it was Dean’s job as the older brother to sort things out with Sam. They might have their philosophical differences, but Dean’s heart and soul are tied to the bastard. Whatever Sammy’s tangled up in, he should’ve come to Dean long before this. He shouldn’t have had to go it alone, until a Devourer was sucking the magic from his marrow. That’s all on Dean.

            He’s done a good job keeping busy the last year, going on hunts with the crew and ending his days with a frisky woman or two-ah, good times-at night. It didn’t replace the cannonball-sized hole Sammy’s absence shot in Dean’s chest, but it kept it from swallowing him whole.

            Dean waits until enough time has passed for Cas to have gone to sleep. At least Sam’s not actually worm food. Dean fills a glass of water from the sink. Had Cas dawdled or dropped the ball on the Devourer, things could have ended very differently today.

            The thought makes Dean sick, so he quickly scans for a distraction. His magic is still a weak fizzle beneath his skin, but he drums up enough to enchant a swarm of light bugs. He doesn’t want to risk turning on the central lights and waking up Cas. Guy’s had enough interruptions today. The light bugs suffice for what Dean has in mind.

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          The scene when Castiel shuffles to the kitchen later is startling enough to scare off the last vestiges of sleep. Quite frankly, he would’ve been less shocked to find Dean had knocked over his book shelf or ransacked his cupboards. Instead, his house has been cleaned, dusted, and organized within an inch of its life.

          The books he keeps scattered around the house are all neatly slotted in the bookshelf. Some have been there so long that there should be a fine layer of dust marking its territory. But his marble counter is sparkling, and even the Rose Odor he’d dropped and forgotten to clean up is gone, not a hint of pink on the floor or cabinets. Castiel doesn’t normally use dishes, since he always forgets to buy spelled sponges and rags that’ll do the job for him. Still, he’s reasonably certain he left his Debussy mug in the sink yesterday morning. He opens the cabinet, and there it is, nestled among the rest of his dishware.

          The bed’s been reverted to Castiel’s comfortable blue sectional, his meager two throw pills carefully arranged. At least his legal pads have been left intact, one on the bookshelf, another on the coffee table and above the fridge.

          Once again, Dean Winchester has thrown him for a loop.

          The busy bee himself is asleep on the floor beside Sam’s bed, a single pillow shoved under his head. There are dark shadows under his eyes that make Cas feel guilty for absolutely no logical reason. If he hadn’t spent half the night cleaning, perhaps he wouldn’t be so _tired_.

          He’s deactivating the kettle’s automatic boiling and regretting the loss of his morning tea when he spots his slippers at the edge of the living room carpet. Gracious, did Dean _exhume_ Castiel’s house?

          Admittedly, it is nice to be able to spare his feet from the punishingly cold floor again. Which, again, he must cast that thermostat spell sometime today.

          He spends the time waiting for Dean to wake up experimenting with doses of mareshade in the cauldron room. The process is frustrating, and Castiel’s pen tears through the lined papers a few times cataloging his failures. Too much mareshade thickens the liquid until its little more than heavy syrup, and too little only makes the potion stickier, without affecting consistency. The heat in the cauldron room is not as suffocating as storage, but Castiel is sweating from rounding the enormous black pot and scooping ladles of potion only to be disappointed by the results.

          When the heavy metal door slides open with a hiss and a blast of cool air, Castiel almost tumbles into the cauldron. Thankfully, he catches himself on the rim in time.

          “Sorry. Tried knocking for a while, but I don’t think you could hear me.” Interest lights Dean’s features at the bubbling cauldron and measuring tools scattered on the table behind Cas. He glances at Castiel for permission, which he gives with a short nod.

          Dean approaches the cauldron and peers into its contents, head held back cautiously.

          “It won’t explode,” Cas assures him. “Probably.”

          “Real comforting,” Dean mutters, but the potential of scalding potion melting his flesh isn’t daunting enough to keep Dean from leaning in to sniff. “Smells like honey.”

          “With the same texture, too,” Cas sighs. He tosses his pen onto the table. Breakfast and chemical-free air might provide new insight to what the problem is. If nothing else, Castiel will have the patience not to drown himself in the cauldron later.

          “Is that mareshade you’re using?” Dean picks up the jar and flips the cork back with his thumb. “Good stuff, too. Charlie’s?”

          “Indeed. Are you familiar with mareshade?”

          Dean shrugs. “Not really. But you’re using root essence in this, right?”

          His brows hit his hairline. Root essence is odorless and colorless. How did…“Correct.”

          “You’re going to need a neutralizer, or the mareshade won’t work. The Root essence will dissolve it, or the mareshade will overpower it, and you’ll have this Honeycomb disaster right here.”

          He should be offended, but it _is_ a disaster. “How do you know so much about this?”

          “Alchemy phase. Is that _another_ legal pad?”

          Cas ushers him out of the cauldron room before he can start exploring. Dean’s about an inch taller than him, around six-foot-two, but he’s broad-shouldered and built like a wall where Cas is lean, corded muscles packed tight against his frame. His hallway isn’t wide enough to accommodate two men of above average height and build, so he falls a step behind Dean to avoid knocking shoulders. This leaves him watching his back, which is now covered by a black T-shirt sporting an obscure rock band of Gifted musicians. Castiel’s strength is subtle, a power humming under his skin, tightly leashed until it explodes. Dean, on the other hand, is lethal from a glance, brimming with raw aggression. This is the same person who found Castiel’s slippers and slept on the floor of his younger brother’s bed to be within easy reach.  It’s a puzzling contradiction.

          Cas taps the kettle with his nail, the _ping_ bringing it to life. After loitering uncertainly for a bit, Dean slides onto one of the stools on the island.

          “What would you like to drink?” Castiel asks, and then realizes he hasn’t fed him yet. Damn. He gets the sense that Castiel’s usual breakfast of a thin, soluble nutrition tablet won’t do for Dean. His refrigerator is empty save a bag of jelly candies Charlie forgot here a week ago.

          “Uh, I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

          Cas glances over his shoulder. “You want tea?” he asks skeptically.

          Dean lip curls in distaste before he can hide it. It’s becoming quite obvious that Dean is rather transparent. Normally, Castiel’s paranoia would chalk up the openness to some kind of drawn-out deceit, but even he’s having trouble rationalizing what Dean’s angle could be. He brushes aside the conspiracy theories and chuckles at Dean’s martyred expression. “It’s not obligatory to drink the tea, Dean.”

          “Thank God.” He wipes his brow dramatically. “I know the stuff’s supposed to be good for you, but it tastes like hot dirt juice to me.”

          “What would you prefer to drink?”

          “I don’t want you to go through any trouble,” Dean dissents quickly, waving Castiel’s offer aside. “No big deal.”

          Cas stares at Dean long enough that the latter squirms in his seat. Instead of breaking, Dean steadies and returns the attention, a clash of green and blue, a battle of wills before breakfast.

          Dean’s gaze flickers away, to the counter. “Fine,” he huffs. “If you’ve got coffee, that’d be great.”

          “Of course,” Castiel returns smugly. He chooses the Debussy mug for himself again and after some consideration, summons the single non-classical musical mug in his cupboard. It settles on the counter, and he drops a tea bag in his Debussy. While Dean distracts himself flipping through last week’s copy of _MedMagic Today,_ Cas presses on two diagonal tiles to the right of the dish rack. The tiles depress, replaced with a glass monitor greeting him with a ‘Welcome Back, Castiel’. He’s just glad he remembered to disable Grace’s audio features the last time he ordered.

          Cas swipes across the screen, finding the best brand of coffee on Grace’s suggestion. He hesitates at the breakfast options. What kind of food would Dean like? Powdered-sugar beignets from France? Sausage from Germany?

          Inordinately stressed, Castiel orders one of everything and taps the tiles to rise over Grace once more. Behind him, Dean shouts, and Cas turns in time to see the magazine drop to the floor as Dean gapes at the veritable feast laid out on the island.

          The kettle whistles and floats to fill Castiel’s mug. Dean’s is already brimming with coffee. He places it in front of Dean and takes a seat opposite him. “I was unsure about your dietary preferences. I hope this will suffice.”

          “Suffice? _Suffice_? Cas, this is insane!” Dean bursts, taking in the platters of sausage, sugared beignets, scrambled eggs, Egyptian falafel, crispy bacon, and syrup-laden waffles.

          Castiel blinks. This isn’t the first time Dean’s referred to him by name, but Castiel was under the impression that the tingle hearing it fall from Dean’s lip created was solely due to his distrust. The more people knew his name, if only half, the thinner the shield of anonymity. But that’s not it. There’s no discernably rational reason Cas likes hearing Dean say his name as if it’s already familiar on his tongue. Cas frowns, slightly annoyed at himself for the odd thought. It must be because he rarely hears anyone but Charlie and Kevin speak his name.

          Meanwhile, Dean is still ogling at the food. Cas rolls his eyes, picking up his mug. He hides his snicker when Dean jumps at the music, finding the notes lifting and rising around Castiel’s mug. He glances at his own, then back at Cas. “Go on, take a sip,” Cas invites, enjoying himself too much.

          “You’re a sadistic dude, aren’t you?” Dean mutters, sullen, but he lifts the mug to his mouth and does as instructed. Where Cas’s Debussy mug exclusively plays ‘Clair de Lune’, soft and melodic, Dean’s mug blares a different symphony, of wailing guitars and drums, the notes whirling in rapid circles around the mug.

          _‘I’m on the highway to hell!_

_On the highway to hell_

_Highway to hell!”_

Cas loses the fight and bursts into laughter as Dean sputters, spilling coffee onto his shirt. Dean sets the mug down and glowers, which only expounds Castiel’s delight. He can’t remember the last time he laughed like this.

          When he finishes, Dean’s watching him with pursed lips. Cas thinks he might be biting back his own smile. “AC/DC? Seriously?”

          “It came complimentary in the mail.”

          Dean shakes his head, taking another sip from his coffee and ignoring the howling lyrics. Retrieving two plates and forks, Cas passes one to Dean and settles down for a proper breakfast. It’s nice to eat actual food instead of swallowing a tablet with his tea. He should try it more often.

          As suspected, Dean eats like he’s starving. He piles his plate high and digs in with gusto. At a several points during the meal, Dean’s cheeks balloon with food, and when he catches Cas watching with a raised brow, Dean’s response is a modest shrug and a cartoonish grin.

          Cas rinses his plate and mug-otherwise he’s reasonably certain Dean will take it upon himself to do it- and goes to check on his patient. Sam’s heartrate hasn’t changed, and he’s still much too pale. Physically, he has the appearance of a wax museum figure, the kind Madame Tussaud had magicked into animation to the fury of the Mortal Church. They were little more than robots, however, and the Church was appeased, as if to say ‘ _see? You Magi are not all-powerful, and you are not God. You may give the appearance of life, but you cannot create what only the divine can.’_ Before Madame Tussaud retired her creatures, Castiel had hazarded a visit out of professional curiosity, and Sam’s appearance is eerily similar to the creatures that had followed him through the museum with blank, glassy stares.

          “How’s he doin’?” Dean inquires, and Cas doesn’t have to check to sense his worry.

          “I’ll give you a report in just a moment,” Cas promises. He lifts his hands, palms downward and fingers spread. He scans them along Sam’s body and mentally groans when there’s only a light pulse of magic pushing back against Castiel. Internally, Sam has begun to recover, yes, but his magic is still alarmingly weak. 

          Finishing his perusal, Cas shares his findings with Dean, who grows more and more distressed. He rakes his hand through his short hair, rubbing the back of his neck hard enough to scrape skin.

          “Why is his magic weak if his body is recovering? Aren’t they a package deal?”

          Handling emotion has never been Castiel’s strong suit. Teaching, too. Aside from the obvious, they are the more mundane reasons why he chose Medical Composition instead of Healing as his Pursuit. “How much do you know about magical anatomy, Dean?”

          Dean blinks, expression twisting in what Charlie would characterize as a classic _what the fuck_ face. “Not much. But lemme guess. You’re gonna change that.”

          He elects not to take offense at Dean’s biting tone, given the circumstances. But it’s clear Dean will require more than a verbal explanation to absorb Castiel’s tangential history lesson. It’s been a while since he’s done this, so finding the right angle of light isn’t easy. Pushing Sam’s bed a few inches to the right would help, but in Dean’s current mood, altering Sam’s condition in any manner would be met with hostility.

          Triangulating the light between his index fingers and thumbs, Cas acquires a feasible background for his presentation. “What the fuck are you doing?” Dean asks at last, having tracked Castiel’s crouching and measuring with irate bemusement.

          “Almost.” Hopefully Dean’s cleaning escapade last night hadn’t-aha! The waxy parchment paper is still rolled up neatly on the mantel above the fireplace. Castiel tears it into small pieces, the opaque paper fluttering into a pile at his feet. As soon as the last piece crests the hill, Castiel steps back.

          “ _Ahya wa asma’a_ ,” Castiel commands, imbuing his voice with the old, primitive power of the Magi. He repeats the command, and on the third utterance, swipes the pile into the air.

          _Arise and heed. Arise and heed. Arise and heed._

          The white pieces hang in the air, catching on the light streaming from the window and revolving like lazy dust motes. Heavens. It might have just been easier to tell Dean the story and deal with the questions. Animation magic is so _stubborn._

          “ _Ahya wa asma’a,_ you ass,” Cas snaps, and the pieces halt, dangling in the air.

          “I think you offended it,” Dean mutters, putting more distance between himself and Castiel.

          Castiel is about to bark a cease and desist order when the pieces burst in a blinding white glow. He throws his elbow over his eyes, but he can already feel the telltale ache in his cornea. From Dean’s muffled curse, he hasn’t fared much better.

          As suddenly as the light appeared, it’s gone, and in its place stand three people.

          Dean immediately closes the space between himself and Sam’s prone body, a curved dagger appearing in his hand between one blink and the next. The charming, easygoing man Castiel enjoyed breakfast with is gone, replaced by the same warrior who’d aimed a gun perfectly poised to shred through Castiel’s skull last night. And if he perceives Castiel as a threat to himself or his brother, Cas has no doubt he’ll be cut down before he can cast so much as a tranquilizing spell.

          “Dean, listen to me,” Castiel says, infusing his voice with calm authority. “This isn’t real. This is animation magic. These three are immaterial, a combination of magic and light. May I demonstrate?”

          Although his dagger remains held at the ready, Dean’s answers with a short nod. “No funny business.”

          “This isn’t a particularly humorous exchange.” Obviously. Maintaining a visual on Dean from his periphery, Cas stands in front of the first creature, his height and stature, with ordinary brown hair and bland, vaguely male features.

          Castiel punches into its chest and tears out its heart.

          The organ is white and cold, lying heavy in Castiel’s palm. He presents it to Dean. “See? They’re animations. I only meant to show you the workings of magic between Mortals, Magi, and the Gifted. If they make you uncomfortable, I can dissolve them.”

          After a charged pause, the dagger vanishes, too quick to have been pocketed. Cast into one of the rings, perhaps? “Can I touch it?”

          “Pardon?”

          Dean points at the heart and holds out his hand, bizarrely eager. Castiel passes it over, but the weight must not be what Dean’s anticipating, because it flops to the ground almost immediately.

          They stare at the fake heart on the ground between them. Dean picks it up and shines it on his shirt. “Good as new.”

          Castiel returns the heart to the first creature. Now that Dean knows they pose no threat, his curiosity is peaked, and he circles them, kicking their legs or poking into their ears. Cas stops him when he maneuvers one mannequin’s finger into its nose.

          “I’m going to begin the presentation now. If you would kindly move aside,” Cas nudges none-too-subtly.

          Dean shuffles back and crosses his arms across his chest. The rings glint from beneath his shirt sleeve. “Fire away.”

          He assigns each of the creatures a designation. A black robe materializes around the chosen Magi, violet wrist cuffs around the Gifted, and the Mortal remains dressed in plain street clothes.

          Cas debates how to best go about his explanation. The best place to start is always the beginning. “As you know, magic has existed on the earth since the dawn of time. In fire, in wind, in dinosaurs, floods, quakes, famine. In celebration and in destruction. Mortals praised those that Magic dwelled within as gods, offering sacrifices to appease them. Until the Mortal Schism, magic was considered divine and those who wielded it among God’s chosen. When the Schism unleashed the magic bound to the earth and touched upon Mortal infants, like Moses and the first-born sons, it changed the dynamic of existence. Through this, the Magi were born. A society with the ability to wield magic, to manipulate time and space and flaunt laws of nature humanity charged as absolute.” The Magi creature lifted its arms to the sides, and an incandescent blue glow spread over its body, bathing it from head to toe.

          “Then, of course, came the Gifted.” The creature with the wrist cuffs remained still, but the blue glow that lit the Magi from the outside appeared, lighting the veins and heart of the Gifted as if lightning had struck it. Cas risks a glance at Dean and finds him watching avidly. Perhaps this was worth the hassle. “Unlike their Magi brethren, magic resides within the Gifted, allowing them unique innate abilities. Where the wide spectrum of power of the Magi was deemed grotesque, an infringement on nature, the Gifted find their power within. Their magic localizes to a single Gift, such as a Gauge’s ability to sense power levels and read magical frequencies, or a Foreseer’s read of the future. Two different manifestations of the same thing.”

          The last figure’s glow is so miniscule, Cas almost misses it. The bright blue spec thumps within the membrane of the heart, visible through the clothes and flesh of the creature (thanks to Castiel’s meticulous light angling-ahem). He points it out to Dean and continues, “Mortals are magically-deficient, but legend says all Mortals are born with a kernel of natural power, but it is the rare few who can access it.”

          “This is a great history lesson, but what’s it got to do with Sam?”

          “If you were paying attention-never mind. Look, this is Sam, magic pulsing outside him, like all Magi. Only the Gifted are equip to absorb magic into themselves, but that’s what Sam’s body is doing. He’s drawing on the magic around him to heal himself, and while it is undoing some of the damage caused by the Devourer, it’s hurting him in other ways.”

          Dean studies Sam as if he can glare the magic out of his bloodstream. “So what do we do?”

          “It’s being taken care of. The medications he’s on should eliminate the problem.” And when Dean’s asleep, absorbing some of the residual magic into himself might help, too. Unlike Sam, Castiel can’t be hurt by it.

          “There’s nothing I can do?” Dean asks, and the vulnerability in his voice and the gentle way he smooths the hair off his brother’s forehead touches Castiel. Having been an only child himself, he’s not familiar with the intricacies of sibling relationships, but anyone can tell Dean’s fiercely protective of his younger brother. He almost blurts it out again, almost reminds Dean that his brother isn’t going to die. Almost, but not quite. He could excuse the slip of the tongue when adrenaline ran high and Dean was frantic, but now?

          Now the only excuse would be to comfort Dean, and Castiel’s not risking his secret for some misplaced urge to provide this man a measure of peace.

          “No. He will be okay, given time and treatment. You must have faith,” is the reassurance Castiel settles on. An ironic platitude, since Castiel knows better than anyone that faith won’t change the expiration date tattooed on Samuel’s soul.

          Dean doesn’t look at him. “Faith? You believe in that Sunday-school bullshit?”

          The lines of Dean’s back are tense and coiled. Quietly, Castiel taps each creature on the forehead, returning them to the pieces of paper. “I believe it would be easier not to believe. To believe that life is something we can control.”

          At this, Dean faces him, glancing briefly at the remains of the mannequins before fixing Castiel with a skeptical scowl. “How the hell can it be easier not to believe? I’d love to buy that there’s someone writing the playbook, some divine GPS mapping our way. But the truth is, nothing in this godforsaken world makes a lick a’ sense.”

          A dustpan and broom clatter from Castiel’s supply closet, startling Dean. Castiel pays them no mind, racking his brain for what a GPS is but drawing a blank. Must be a Mortal term. “Sometimes, the reasons can be beyond our understanding. The good die young. Evil thrives. And somehow, life goes on. This is our reality, and if I didn’t believe some kind of plan drove the world, I would sink into madness.”

          The broom and dustpan clank back to the supply closet, plunging them into a charged silence. For the first time, Castiel finds himself curious to learn more about Dean. What could’ve damaged him so thoroughly to rob him of humanity’s one saving grace?

What happened to Dean Winchester’s hope?

          “Good things do happen, Dean.”

          His lip curls. “Not in my experience.”

          Their strange standoff is disrupted by a knock on the door. Dean blinks, and whatever window he’d inadvertently opened slams shut. “Want me to get it, or are you gonna work your security mojo?”

          “I’ll get it,” Castiel answers, brushing aside his disappointment. Its good Dean isn’t interested in sharing. He might have asked the same of Castiel, which would be inconvenient at best.

          It’s Charlie at the door, unannounced yet again.

          She barrels past him with hardly a how-do-you-do. “Did you guys watch the news?”

          “Mortal or Magic?” Dean asks immediately.

          “Mortal.”

          “Haven’t gotten to it. What’s going on, Charlie?”

          She scrunches her nose and exhales. “Magi terrorist attack against Mortals or…”

          A terrorist attack sounds plenty bad to Castiel, but from Charlie’s tone, that’s not the possibility she’s afraid of.

          “Or what?” Cas prompts. Dean crosses his arms over his chest expectantly.

          Charlie’s face is grim. “Or something real fucking evil has just been born.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyy, the first Friday post of the fic. Longer one, too. My roommate's going to LA for the weekend, so if anyone happens to be on Twitter and wants to chat (while I battle invisible ghosts at 3 am), please do! 
> 
> In the meantime, comments literally give me life. If you can guess three of the seven weapons Dean carries on his person at all times, I'll give you a shout-out at the start of the next chapter! (my enticing offers are limited). 
> 
> -Jessa


	4. A Soul's Compass

Chapter Four- A Soul's Compass

Castiel grabs the remote he hardly uses and clicks until he finds a Mortal channel. A hologram of TV anchor Garth Fitzpatrick materializes behind his coffee table, too pixelated for Castiel’s liking. He should’ve sprung for premium holographics.

          Dean and Charlie join him on the couch. Dean’s sitting on the edge, hands clasped in front of him.

          “Forensics has yet to determine a cause for this morning’s tragic death of twenty-two patients at Valley Grove Psychiatric Center. Some have claimed pharmaceutical fault while others deem the event a freak accident. Witness statements are being taken at the Grove County Police Station as we speak. We go now to Kevin Tran, Head of Magical Surgery at Seal Hospital, for a follow-up.”

          Garth’s hologram waves out of existence, replaced by the familiar shape of Kevin Tran. Since when does Kevin report on _Mortal_ medical crises? Cas turns up the volume.

          Kevin clears his throat and taps the mike clipped to his lapel, sending a crackle through the hologram. “Sorry, sorry. Um, the victims of this morning’s incident arrived with myocardial infraction, commonly known as a heart attack. A heart attack occurs when there’s a blockage in the blood supply going to the heart. Usually, there are signs that lead to myocardial infarction, and only in rare cases does it happen to the young and healthy. Autopsies show that twenty-three, twenty-four-year old patients died from necrosis of the cardiac tissue.”

          Garth flickers back in. “Twenty-two young adults dying from heart attacks at the _exact same time_ at the Center? Obviously, this morning rare was the rule. What’s your take on what could have caused this, Dr. Tran?”

          Even through the vibrating pixels, Kevin’s uncertainty comes across loud and clear. “I’m afraid your guess is as good as mine.”

          They must all be unsettled by the news, because when a knock sounds on the door, Castiel isn’t alone in jumping three feet into the air.

          When Cas activates Grace’s security this time, there’s no teasing from Dean.

          “Kevin?” Castiel ventures, unsure despite having certified that this in fact Kevin Tran and not an imposter.

          The short Asian man hops from foot-to-foot, looking as uncomfortable as Castiel feels. Their exchanges have been almost exclusively through the phone, a friendly business relationship. He’s also positive he never gave Kevin his address, but the boy has proven numerous times that he’s almost too clever for his own good. He must have portaled here immediately following his interview.

          His eyes flash up to Castiel’s, and Cas can’t help but wince. He already knows Kevin’s expiration date from their initial meeting. It’s a good thing Kevin has accomplished so much in his young life, because the bold death certificate stamped on his soul has prescribed him a short life. At the age of forty-four, three months, and two days, Kevin Tran will die.

          Of course, Kevin doesn’t know that. The only person privy to Castiel’s secret that isn’t dead or thousands of miles away is Charlie.

          “Sorry to intrude,” Kevin starts, nervous. He’s in the scrubs he wore on the news. “Can I talk to you?”

          “Uh. Certainly. Come inside.” He allows Kevin entry and closes the door, hoping this is the last time he’ll hear it knocked on for the next, oh, century or so.

          Dean and Charlie have switched off the news and are seated on the kitchen island. Charlie’s watching Kevin with curiosity, Dean with open suspicion.

          “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had visitors. I can come another time?” Kevin offers reluctantly.

          “Please, don’t leave on our account,” Charlie interjects. She shakes Kevin’s hand. “Charlie Bradbury. You’re much less pixelated in person.”

          “Thank you?” Kevin glances at Dean warily. Charlie elbows him, and Dean finally extends his hand.

          “Dean.” They shake shortly, Kevin’s fingers flexing when they part.

          “I take it you’ve seen the news, then?” Kevin addresses Cas. Straight to the meat of the matter, another thing Castiel enjoys about his acquaintance with Dr. Tran.

          “I did. Twenty-two myocardial infarctions in physically sound young adults?”

          “It makes no sense,” Kevin says, frustration leaking through. “None. I studied their cadavers myself, Castiel. The cardiac tissues was completely dead. Necrosis of that caliber doesn’t happen.”

          “Which is why they sent Mortal victims to a Magical facility,” Castiel realizes.  “Did you find any magical residue?”

          “None. Not a damn spark. Either this is a Magi terrorist with impeccable spellcasting technique, or there’s some Mortal disease spreading with Valley Grove Psychiatric Center as ground zero.”

          “What’s a ground zero?”

          Charlie sighs. “You have _got_ to come to my movie nights.”

          “Anyway, I came by to see if maybe you had some clue what it could be. I brought scans.”

          Castiel shakes his head regretfully. “I’m a Medical Composer, Kevin. Not a Healer.”

          “I know that. But you supply us with medications and potions and spells with remarkable healing capabilities, Castiel. To compose solutions to the problem, you must have some knowledge of what you’re dealing with. Please? Can you just look at them?” He holds out the papers, earnest and pleading.

          Resigned, Castiel gestures to his kitchen island. Dean did a good job wiping it down, and it has the largest surface area for Castiel to hem and haw over scans he hasn’t the faintest clue how to decipher.

          All four of them bow over the scans once Kevin’s finished laying them side-by-side. There are pictures of the heart from the autopsy too, the heart tissue dark and mottled. Beside him, Charlie retches and peels away, the slap of her footsteps down the hall loud in the morbid quiet.

          Castiel hazards a glance at Dean and is startled to find him assessing the scans without a flicker of disgust or the tender fragility of the living when confronted with mortality.

          “I’m sorry, Kevin,” Castiel says after poring intently through each scan. “I just don’t know.”

          Kevin’s crestfallen expression kicks Castiel into adding, “But I can provide you with some items to help if you continue examining their cadavers. Wait here.”

          Apparently Dean is under the impression that the request only applies to Kevin, because he falls into step beside Castiel. He should protest the invasion of privacy, given the high-risk nature of his supply room.

          He says nothing and pushes open the door.

          Dean waits patiently while Castiel gathers the bottles and jars and tubes to give Kevin in the basket. Castiel can practically _hear_ the questions pinging around Dean’s head, but he doesn’t say a word, just watches intently while Castiel mutters at various bottles and papers.

          They return to the living room, where Kevin’s returned the scans to his messenger bag and Charlie’s gulping water over the sink.

          “Uh, Castiel? Why is there a comatose man in your living room?” Kevin asks, hooking his thumb to Sam’s bed.

          “I’m caring for him at the moment,” Cas answers simply.

          “Right. Shouldn’t he be at the hospital? You just said yourself you’re not a Healer.”         

          At this, Dean intervenes, and with none of Castiel’s patience. “Listen up chuckles, how about you focus on your crop of dead hearts and leave the rest to Cas?”

          Kevin swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing with consternation. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t-I was only-I just wanted to offer my services, if they’re needed. I’ve got to be returning to the hospital soon. Castiel, thank you for trying.”

          “Of course,” Castiel frowns, because he doesn’t deserve Kevin’s thanks. Kevin will undoubtedly drive himself to the ground searching for an explanation for this phenomena while Castiel plays doctor to a singular patient with ambiguous connections. Ambiguous, because Castiel is not blind. Dean Winchester wears weapons on his person at all times, he doesn’t flinch from death, and Devourer’s don’t target victims at random.

          Castiel remembers he’s still holding the basket and snaps his fingers, transferring the contents to a padded bag Kevin can safely carry. “You’ll find items in there that can melt the damaged tissue in the increments you prefer, along with identifying agents for any foreign invaders or magical residue.”

          “Thanks, Castiel.”

          “I wish I could do more.”

          “As do I,” Kevin says. Castiel walks him out, inadequacy weighing heavily on him.

          “I’m going to lie down,” Cas says once Kevin’s gone. “Aside from the supply and cauldron rooms, my home is open to you both.”

          Charlie’s wearing her uh-oh-Castiel-is-going-to-his-dark-place look of concern. “You sure? I was gonna make us popcorn and turn on some movies.”

          “Maybe I’ll join you in a bit,” Castiel replies politely, already retreating down the hall. Dean, who’s been quietly contemplative throughout this ordeal, tracks Castiel’s movements with a slight frown.

          Then he’s in alone in the sanctuary of his room, flopping into the warm cocoon of blankets and pillows. He’s barely started counting the constellations swirling languidly on his ceiling when there’s a knock on his door.

          He sighs. “Come in.”

          A redhead with too much personality pokes her head inside sheepishly. “Sorry. I just…you sure you’re okay?”

          “No,” he allows. “I can’t find Orion’s Belt.”

          Groaning, Charlie enters all the way and kicks the door shut behind her. “You know, you’ve got a lot more in common with Dean than either of you think.”

          Cas snorts. “I’m sure.”

          “Seriously. I parked him on the couch and turned on _Star Wars_ , but he’s totally tuned into his own station right now. Barely heard a thing I said.”

          Hardly twenty-four hours have passed since he made Dean’s acquaintance, but Castiel isn’t surprised that Dean’s not shaking off Kevin’s visit any more than Cas is. Magi or Gifted killing Mortals is atrocious in and of itself, but young psychiatric patients? Troubled, defenseless kids?

          It hits too close to home, harkening to another time, another Mortal, and he quickly moves on.

          “Charlie, what does Dean do? What’s his Pursuit?” He props himself up against the headboard, giving her space to sit. But Charlie is Charlie, and she bounces into bed beside Cas without a second thought. She folds her legs Indian-style and hugs a pillow to her chest.

          “This is a really soft pillow,” she says in lieu of an answer.

          Cas waits, pinning her with a stare he has on good authority can cause great distress to whomever is on the receiving end. She picks at the seam of his pillow for a full thirty seconds before she breaks.

          “I can’t tell you his Pursuit, Cas. That’s personal.”

          “He’s living under my roof with his mysteriously injured brother. I’ve merited personal.”

          “Have you asked him yourself?”

          He shakes his head, and Charlie jumps on it. “Ask him. He’ll tell you. Really, you two are too paranoid for your own good.”

          Twisting his body towards her, Cas grabs her elbow in a tight grip. She flinches back in surprise. Being touched is right up there with unnecessary socializing in Castiel’s book, and he certainly doesn’t initiate physical contact if he can help it. “I can’t read him, Charlie.”

          Her brows pinch. “He’s a pretty inscrutable guy. I grew up with him and even I drop the ball sometimes.”

          “No, no,” Castiel says vehemently. “I can’t _read_ him.”

          Her face clears, mouth forming a small ‘O’. When she speaks, it’s in hushed disbelief. “You don’t know when he’s going to die?”

          “No.”

          “No, you don’t know, or no, you do?”

          “No, I don’t know!”

          “Sheesh, I was just checking. Uh, Cas, you mind?” she inclines her head towards his hold on her arm, which he quickly drops. He’s instantly guilty when her other hand rubs the area, restarting blood flow. “Has that ever happened before? Not seeing someone’s death date?”

          “Never. It’s never happened.” A terrible thought occurs to Castiel. “What if he’s a Ravine?”

          He can’t imagine that. Ravines are intrinsically selfish and self-serving. Their actions beget destructions to others for profit or merriment. Ravine’s poison the magic around them, or in the case of Gifted gone Ravine, are rotted to the core. For Dean to become a Ravine, he would have committed a great, incomprehensible evil.

          Ravines are magic gone dark; twisted creatures with the minds of Magi and the souls of the damned.

          “He’s not a Ravine!” Charlie yelps. “Hot damn, Cas, grab a parachute if you’re gonna jump to conclusions so fast.”

          “Then what? It doesn’t make sense. The only person on this planet who should be exempt from my ‘Gift’ is myself.”

          “You can still see mine, right?”

          Cas doesn’t have to move his gaze from the far wall to know. He sees it every time she looks at him, but he’s gotten fairly good at tuning it out. “Yes.”

          “Did you see Sam’s?”

          “Briefly, but yes. I see _everyone’s._ That’s the point.”

          “Huh,” Charlie muses, dropping back onto the mattress. “That’s weird. I’ll do some digging, see if I can find any explanations for why a Gift suddenly stops giving.”

          He lays down again, slightly appeased. It’s doubtful Charlie will obtain any useful information, but at least someone can share in his confusion. Sleep weighs on him fast after that, but he stays awake long enough for Charlie to murmur, “By the way, Orion’s Belt is over your desk,” and creep into the hall.                           

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          **Dean**

Charlie’s been giving him a glare that could peel the paint from a car. Fifteen minutes have awkwardly ticked by, but has Charlie cared to enlighten Dean about the nature of the bug up her ass? Nope.

          “I’m a Magi, not a neuromage. I can’t read your freaky little mind.”

          “Don’t be cute.”

          “Don’t ask for the impossible.” Dean shoots her his best shit-eating grin.

          “I’m serious, Dean,” Charlie says sternly. Charlie is _stern_. The same girl who threw a brick through Hester Milton’s window when she invited everyone in their fifth-grade class to her birthday party except Dean.

          Charlie crosses her arms over her chest. “You need to be nice to Cas.”

          That’s…not what he was expecting. “Me? I’m the established nice one. He’s the one you should be talking to. Guy wouldn’t know a smile if it round-housed him in the ‘nads.”

          Charlie shoves his shoulder. For such a wispy little thing, she packs a punch.

“What was that for?!”

“I’m not kidding. This isn’t a big ha-ha, Dean. Cas isn’t….Cas is special. I’m his closest friend and I know next to nothing about him. The fact that he’s letting you two crash here is enormous.”

Frowning slightly, Dean fiddles with the blanket Cas scrounged up for him. It’s got bumblebees stitched onto it with bright yellow yarn. It’s the most cheerful thing Castiel seems to own.

“It’s not like I’m gonna set the dude’s place on fire,” Dean protests. “I’m a good guest. Fabulous. I don’t even steal the towels when I leave.”

“Bub, you are on thin ice. You and Sam are my family, but Cas is the wounded bird I found lying on the sidewalk, its feathers all ruffled up and bleeding from its beak. Don’t hurt my baby bird.”

“That’s a deeply disturbing metaphor.”

“And above all,” Charlie continues, glaring. “He’s dangerous.”

They both glance towards the hall, but there’s no indication of Castiel’s door opening.

Dean sits up, light mood effectively doused. His brother is a fucking vegetable, and Charlie’s choosing _now_ to staple a warning label to their doctor? It’s not like he hasn’t had his suspicions, but hearing that it’s not all in his overly-distrustful head is a whole other ball game. “What do you mean, dangerous?”

Charlie shrugs, but Dean’s not having it. “Charlie. If he flips, I need to know what I’m protecting Sam from. Does this have anything to do with how much power he’s packing?”

“You sensed it too, huh?”

“How could I not? It’s like sticking your finger in an electrical socket every time he uses it.”

          “I almost blacked out the first time I touched him.”

          Right. Sometimes Dean forgets that Charlie is a Gifted Gauge as well as a shop owner. “What range is he?”

          She bites her lip. “You have to promise not to freak out.”

          Yeah, fat chance. Dean’s already mapping out escape routes and ways to haul Sam’s Sasquatch body if shit goes south. “Promise.”

          “Well, his cumulative score, taking casting, design, essence, and all the other good stuff into account…is X. He’s a firm X.”

          Dean springs up, horrified. “An X?! Are you shitting me right now, Charlie?” He remembers that Cas, a goddamn _X_ , might hear them and lowers his volume. “There have been three recorded X-range Magi in history. Three. Two of them created Magical society before losing their marbles and wiping out entire Mortal cities, and the third one _broke the world,_ Charlie. The third one was Cain.”

          “Cain, as in Schism Cain? The Earthly Divine?”

          “No, Cain the dancing corndog. Yes!”

          “There is no need for that tone,” she sniffs.

          “Apparently there is, because you’ve lost your fucking mind,” Dean hisses. “I’m getting us out of here before this guy goes loco and turns us into china sets.”

          He doesn’t get very far before Charlie’s on him, tackling him to a halt. They glare at each other. Unfortunately, being pissed at Charlie has never been easy.

          He lets her pull him back to the couch.

          “Listen, I know you’re wigging. I understand. But Cas is a good guy. Truly. He’s helped out thousands of people with his Composition, and he hasn’t hurt a fly in the time I’ve known him.”

          Dean scrubs his hands down his face. The stubble on his unshaven jaw scratches. “So you’re saying he’s trustworthy?”

          “I think so, yes.”

          “That’s a glowing endorsement. Real reassuring.”

          “I said he hasn’t hurt a fly in the time I’ve known him,” Charlie replies snootily, getting to her feet. “But before that…” Charlie glances towards the hall again, and Dean could swear a shadow of fear crosses her face before she artfully obscures it.

          “I really can’t say who Castiel was before I knew him.”

 

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          _“Castiel, please!” Rachel screamed, her once-beautiful features awash in twin beams of blue coming from the Keeper’s cars. “CAS!”_

_She melted, flesh bubbling and elongating into Michael’s solemn countenance. Another day, another betrayal. He charged Castiel, a soldier with a mission, but Castiel felled him with a soft chant and a wave of his hand. Michael writhed on the ground, eyes watering up at Castiel._

_“Why?” he shouted. “Why, Castiel?”_

_Castiel crouched by Michael’s head, caressing his cheek tenderly. His fallen lover. His ruined faith. “You lied to me. You’re a liar.”_

_“You b-b-bastard.” Blood trickled from Michael’s nose in twin rivulets, staining his lips. Curious, Cas smeared a trail of red across Michael’s bottom lip, the one Castiel always enjoyed sinking his teeth into._

_“Don’t worry. I’ll take the pain away. I promise,” Castiel whispered, and closed his fist inches above Michael’s mouth. Michael’s back arched, seizing, and relaxed back against the pavement. “Hhhhhh….” Michael sighed, and his eyes went blank and still. His expiration date was wiped from Castiel’s sight._

_Castiel lifted his fist and slowly unfurled it. Swirling blue light mixed with gold, a helix of mist and magic. There, cocooned in his palm, was Michael’s last breath. And what a beautiful breath it was._

_He spelled Michael’s body into ash, watching what was left of his comrade carried off by the wind._

_Pocketing Michael’s last breath, Castiel portalled away from the dirty alley, a perfect ring of crimson where Michael had lain the only sign Castiel had ever been there._

          Water drips from Castiel’s chin, trailing moisture along the slope of his throat. Bloodshot blue eyes meet his in the mirror, agitated. The nightmares stopped two years ago. He thought this was over, that he’d repaid his debt to karma and was granted a sliver of peace in return. Either his subconscious took a prolonged sabbatical from torturing Castiel, or something’s pried his memories loose from where Castiel nailed, buried, and abandoned them.

          He woke up sweating and overheated, strangling his blankets or being strangled by them, he’s not sure. He’s got no clue what time it is. Absently, Castiel rubs his thumb over the full softness of his bottom lip before coming to and dropping his hand with a hiss.

          _I’ll take the pain away. I promise._

Showering doesn’t help. No matter how vigorously he scrubs, the grime of the alley lingers on his skin. The soft exhale of Michael’s dying breath rings in his ears. Weary, Castiel drops his forehead to the shower tile, behind the spray. Cold water cascades down his spine, swirling clean and pure into the drain. But it’s not cleaning him. Nothing can cleanse Castiel.

          He towels off quickly and throws on a loose T-shirt and sweatpants, forgoing boxers in an effort to keep his temperature from spiking again. The house is quiet, eerily still in a way only night can induce. Cas ignores his slippers, not wanting the light _slap-slap-slap_ to wake his guests. A cup of tea will settle his nerves. If not, he’s a Composer, for God’s sake. He can blast his brains into the next century of relaxation if he’s so inclined.

          _Careful, Castiel,_ an insidious, sickly sweet voice oozes from the back of his mind. _Using Composition as a crutch is what you got you into this mess in the first place._

He stops halfway down the hall. Tea won’t help. His nerves aren’t demanding calm, they’re demanding _release._ Tugging on socks and sneakers, Castiel goes to the garage and clicks the door shut behind him. The only light source is a single lightbulb hanging from the wooden beams that serve as the ceiling and haphazard storage compartments.

          Cycling through his options, Castiel settles on the tried-and-true method of beating it out. Raising his elbows and planting his feet, Castiel pounds on the punching bag, the quiet thud of his raining fists muted. He swivels on his heel, roundhouse kicking the bag and swinging it a foot to the side. His grunts and the smack of flesh on canvas are the only sounds in the garage. The blue mats on his feet squeak from the force of his blows.  

          _I’ll take the pain away. I promise._

What’s he doing, playing nurse to some boy? Charlie likes to think Castiel is an eccentric hermit with a heart of gold. Kevin fancies Castiel a reclusive genius, penned in by brilliance and a flare of insanity.

          But Castiel is no hero. Heart of gold? He’d be surprised if he had a heart at all. He hopes he doesn’t. Anything light and good and loving in his chest has been hollowed out, carved and maimed until amputation would be merciful.

          _Thud, thud, thud,_ shout his fists. Blue sparks crackle, raising the fine hairs on the back of his neck. His magic is channeling his aggression, churning with it. Castiel needs to get himself under control before he does something annoying like sneeze and burn the house down.

          “Easy there, tiger,” a voice drawls, startling Castiel. His magic pops, flares. A piece of the canvas on the punching bag curdles and melts.

          Framed against the door, arms crossed over his chest and a deceptively lazy smile on his face, is Dean.

          Different gears in Castiel’s head click, some zeroing on the ring he’s twirling idly, some admiring the stretch of his shirt across his broad chest. He clenches and unclenches his stinging fists at his sides. Calm and gracious host isn’t a role he’s capable of playing right now. The animal he keeps bound and gagged is straining against its ties. “I apologize. Did I wake you?”

          “I’m a light sleeper,” Dean replies serenely. “Even if I wasn’t, your magic would wake the dead. It’s pulsing through the house, man.”

          Shit. Thank God for small mercies. If Dean was a Gauge, he might have fried him. Still, Dean’s a Magi, and more than that, he’s observant. He’s either chalking up this abundance of power display to Castiel being an unusually high-caliber Magi, or waiting to quarter him for parts later.

          “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I was trying to prevent that. I suppose I made it worse.”

          “No shit.” Dean crosses toward him. Before Castiel can process it, _him,_ Dean’s taking Castiel’s hands in his and frowning. “Dude. What the fuck were you thinking? Where are your gloves?”

          Cas blinks, having temporarily short-circuited from the unexpected touch. Following Dean’s ire to its source, he discovers that his knuckles have split open, skin scraped straight off and leaving a bloody mess behind. Dean’s large hands cradle Castiel’s. Castiel’s fingers are long and tapered, elegant where Dean’s are strong and calloused. He could circle Castiel’s wrist and snap it without a second thought.

          The smell of metallic blood in his nose and the leashed violence of Dean’s fingers shouldn’t arouse Castiel, but here he is, fucking aroused.

          He laughs, because it figures that the basic, animal urge to fight and break overlaps into fucking, colors it in the bright hues of violence.

          “Jesus,” Dean gasps, and Cas thinks its because he somehow read his mind or tasted the _want_ thrumming in his body, but Dean grits his teeth and growls, “Magic. Get your goddamn magic under control or I’ll do it for you.”

          He’s still holding Castiel’s bleeding knuckles. The threat, while reasonable, only succeeds in ramping Castiel’s bloodlust higher. He takes a step closer to Dean, trapping their joined hands between their chests. “Is that so?” he says, low and gravelly.

          Dean thumb brushes the underside of Castiel’s wrist, his nail dragging against the network of veins beneath the pale skin. His eyes are bright and tempting; Castiel wants to drown himself in mossy green, the only dwelling death hasn’t darkened with its presence.

          “Do you have a soul, Dean Winchester?” Cas asks, tilting his head like maybe at the right angle, he’ll pierce through Dean and answer his own question.

          Dean doesn’t bat an eye. “I do.”

          “Are you certain?”

          He doesn’t grace Castiel with a verbal response this time, settling for a slight quirk of his brow. The move is unsettlingly sexy. Then again, in his current state, Dean could scratch his nose and Castiel would be hard enough to hammer nails.

          “I’m sorry,” Cas laments. “A soul is a despicable thing to bear sometimes.”

          Now Dean’s idly drawing small circles on Castiel’s wrist. Cas wonders if he’s even aware he’s doing it. Probably not. “Yeah, it is. But I’d rather haul the thing around then lose it.”

          “Why? Don’t you want to be free?” Castiel follows Dean’s light movements, aware he’s acting like a dunce-hat moron, or worse, an unstable wreck.

          “That, my magically-intoxicated friend, is reserved for another three a.m pow-wow. C’mon, let’s stitch this up before they scar.”

          Refraining from pointing out that he can heal himself up with an elementary suturing spell, Castiel trails Dean into the living room. The cool air prickles his damp, sweat-slicked skin. He’s going to need another shower. Maybe two. And without adrenaline pumping through his veins, the pain in his knuckles screeches for attention. He tries to unfurl his fingers and winces.

          “Yeah, you really did a number on yourself,” Dean says, with a haughty air of disapproval. He leads Castiel to the couch and returns with a glass of water. “Drink.”

          Castiel peers into the clear contents. “What’s in it?”

          “Nothing. Not every fix is magical. Hydrate and shut up.”

          Too tired to dispute the order, Castiel drinks the water in three pulls and sets the empty glass on the coffee table. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were a Mortal.”

          Most Magi would take offense to that. Most Gifted, too. But Dean just chuckles, low and deep. Castiel wants to lean into the sound. “Spent a lot of time studying them. They’re not all that different, you know.”

          Cas snorts, quickly followed by a hiss when Dean wipes a wet cloth across his open knuckles. “I find that hard to believe.”

          “That’s because you’ve got more power than most of the country combined. I doubt you’ve bothered to get to know Mortals. Or anyone, for that matter,” Dean observes, studiously cleaning Castiel’s wounds. He flicks a glance to Cas that dares him to offer a contradiction.  

          Castiel keeps quiet.

          “Why’d you ask me about my soul, before? We circling back to God and your divine plan?” When the remainder of blood’s been cleaned, Dean flattens Castiel’s hand on his thigh. Cas tries not to jump or clamp onto the thick muscle beneath his palm. Dean’s resolutely looking down, but Cas thinks he catches the whisper of a smile. With the tip of his index finger, Dean draws the suturing symbol above the bone of his wrist. A painful thirty seconds later, Castiel’s skin has knit together and smoothed into unblemished, pale skin.

          He quickly retracts his hand, curling it into his lap. “Thank you.”

          “No problem. Answer my question.”

          Is Dean trying to get a rise out of Cas? Because if so, he’s doing a phenomenal job. “I’ll answer if you answer mine.”

          Instantly, Dean’s face shuts down, going blank with practiced skill. It’s admirable. Still, he gestures for Cas to proceed. “Shoot.”

          “What’s your Pursuit, Dean?”

          There’s no sign of a response from Dean; he continues to stare at Cas placidly. Maybe he should have listened to Charlie and let Dean’s secrets lie undisturbed. Normally, he doesn’t care one way or another about somebody’s story. It’s easier that way; no one to get attached to, no one to lose. No one for him to hurt.

          Why he’s developed a sudden need to know the green-eyed Magi who may or may not be a Ravine is beyond him.

          Cas has already accepted that his inquiry will go unanswered. He’s thinking of a graceful escape strategy when Dean hooks his thumb into the back collar of his shirt and tugs it over his head in one smooth movement.

          _Tan skin, muscles, broad, strong, push, taste, touch_ shoots Castiel’s mind in a steady stream of misfiring neurons. But that part is immediately silenced when he catches sight of the tattoo on Dean’s chest, inked above his heart.

          Carved into Dean’s flesh is a compass, bold black lines painting the simple circle with four arrows drawn from it. The arrows are deceptively simple, but within the circle of the compass are tiny, intricate drawing, spells and enchantments of every variety. Lovely in its unholy promise.

The tattoo is ancient, carved into stones slabs of the Old World. It is immortalized in glass and chrome across the globe. It is the sign of killers, of the unseemly society propping up their own.

          “You’re a Slayer,” Castiel says flatly.  

          Dean straightens. His chin lifts defiantly. “I am.”

          “Your brother?”

          “Not a Slayer, and not your business.”

          This is a critical moment. With one word, Castiel has the ability to dramatically alter his budding…friendship with Dean. The knowledge isn’t lost on Dean, who waits on Castiel with a somber patience.

          How many times has Dean had to experience this exact moment? How many people have seen fit to serve as judge and jury for Dean? Two days ago, Castiel would have been happy to do the same.

          Because Slayers? They are not exactly the crown jewels of the magical community. Slayers are the boogeymen under the bed, the dark shapes innocent children claim to see on a rainy day. Truly, it is an unfair image. Reputation as bloodthirsty mercenaries aside, Slayers protect the magical and mortal communities from threats. Specifically, they protect them from Ravine, a task not even the Keepers enjoy undertaking. The Ravine are Magi gone bad, they’re Gifted astray, and they are soulless. They will kill, maim, and torture without remorse for their own ends, and the fact that a Ravine was once an ordinary Magi or Gifted is a horrifying truth that most shy from. Because if that Magi could succumb to draw of dark power, what’s stopping any Magi or Gifted from going dark side?

Slayers hunt Ravine. They get their hands dirty taking care of the twisted creatures nobody else will acknowledge but everyone lives in constant fear of. Death and destruction follows in the wake of Slayers, and Castiel’s rooming with one.

          “I see.” Castiel allows himself one last, lingering glance at the Slayer’s Mark, and nods.

          “That gonna be a problem?” Dean’s tone is even, but there’s no missing the underlying warning.

          Seven years Castiel has spent being safe and secure in his solitude. Seven years he’s worked to atone for his sins. He’s had a lot of time for introspection, to get to know himself and consider only what was best for him.

          So it takes him by complete surprise when instead of the answer he was rehearsing, he hears himself say, “Not for me.”

          Relief flashes across Dean’s expression, lightning-fast, and then its replaced with stoic satisfaction. “Good. Woulda been awkward.”

          Dean tugs his shirt on while Cas pointedly stares at the table. He fixes on the legal pad by the corner of the table and wills away the heat pumping through him. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he’s going to cast that damn thermostat spell, because clearly the temperature in this house is what’s got him flustered like an adolescent.

          He excuses himself to shower and go to bed. Under the cold spray, his head clears, and he remembers his dream with grating clarity. It’s been a while since his demons have occupied his unconscious mind. Cas has a slayer in his living room who has undoubtedly met with atrocities most of civilized society can’t fathom. Dean presented his Mark with steely armor, expecting Cas to turn up his nose at Dean’s Pursuit like most Magi did. But who is Castiel to be judging anybody? His money is dirty. There’s blood on his hands he’ll never be able to wash away. He’s ruined countless lives, while Dean endeavors to save them.

          Aside from answering Castiel’s burning curiosity, Dean’s confession has the added benefit of bringing about a state of harmony for the next few days. They adopt a routine; Cas works on his composition and cares for Sam, and Dean pores through Castiel’s book collection and maintains the house. Any attempt to convince Dean he doesn’t have to fix the sink or organize Castiel’s legal pads is met with a glare.

          He remembers what Charlie said about how Dean hates being a burden and stops nagging him. Being cooped up in the house is clearly wearing on Dean, who seems like a social creature by nature. He doesn’t share Castiel’s contentedness for peace and solitude, as evidenced by his inability to leave Castiel alone when he’s working on a potion or valiantly trying to finish a chapter of a new medical journal.

Sam’s condition improves in increments. Color returns to his cheeks, his magic stops draining him and returns to the natural process of drawing from outside his body. The better Sam gets, the happier Dean is. He takes up humming while he reads when Sam’s fingers twitch for the first time, and when Sam’s coma-like state lightens into REM sleep, Dean sings an off-key song and fixes Castiel’s holographics.

          They’re on their fifth day of cohabitation when Castiel takes a break from measuring mareshade and discovers his front door wide open. Panic sends him sprinting forward. Sam hasn’t been moved, but Dean’s not sprawled on the couch or lurking behind any mechanical equipment.  

          Could someone have broken through his wards and taken Dean? It’s impossible. They can’t have. Right?

          Cas surges through the front door, Dean’s name poised on his lips, and promptly trips over a hulking shape on the ground.

          “Ow! Dude, what the fuck? Watch where you’re going!” Dean complains next to where Castiel’s flat on the gravel. Cas sits up and brushes pebbles from the crease of his elbow, scowling thunderously.

          “Me? What are you doing out here? The door is open! I thought something happened to you!”

          Dean flutters his lashes. “Aw, you were worried about me? I’m touched.”

          His answering glare is withering.

          Brandishing a tool resembling a deformed spatula in one hand, Dean points to the wilting peonies in the strip of soil paving the front yard. “Your flowers are depressing as fuck. They were bringin’ me down, so I’m fixing ‘em.”

          “Is that a fork?” Cas squints at another tool beside the garden hose he had installed and never used.

          “Is that a fo-no, Cas, that’s not a fork. Well, actually, I guess it is technically a hand fork, but it’s not what you’re thinking. See? You use it to level the soil or clear the ground to plant new seeds.” Dean demonstrates, then passes the tool to Castiel in the manner one would hand a toddler a particularly advanced toy. “You wanna try?”

          “Don’t patronize me,” Cas grumbles.

          “Then stop being a baby and come rake some soil.” Dean waves a small shovel in the air and declares, “We’re saving the flowers today!”

          Cas rakes the soil like Dean did and checks for approval. At Dean’s thumbs-up, Cas smiles and exposes more fresh soil to the air. Dean shows him how to use the spatula (“It’s called a trowel, Cas, c’mon”), how to clip with the pruners in just the right place (“See these old stems here at the base? Those are the ones you wanna get rid of.”), and plant new seedlings alongside the existing plants.

          “How do you know how to garden?” Cas inquires. Not to stereotype, but Dean struck him as a macho man’s man, who’d think a hobby like gardening was beneath him.

          Raising his sleeve to wipe a strip of dirt from his chin, Dean resolutely studies the dirt. His ears are tinged red. Is he _embarrassed_?

          This afternoon only gets more and more intriguing.

          “When I was nineteen, I was living in this shithole complex. Only thing I could afford at the time, and it was mostly Mortal, with a real dick Magi for a landlord. The woman who lived next to me more or less adopted me. Guess she didn’t approve of me comin’ home black and blue every other night.” Dean shakes his head, a nostalgic smile caught on his lips. “She’s the one who taught me how to get bloodstains out of clothes, and that even if I only had two cents to rub together, if knew how to fake it right, I’d get by.”

          Castiel has long since stopped his ministrations with the hand fork, fearful of missing a single syllable. What he knows of Dean is scant, and he’s only got his jokes and his manner to glean from.

          “Anyway, she’s the one that taught me how to garden. Missouri had the shittiest green thumb of anyone I’ve ever met-barring you, plant killer- but she was bullheaded. Insisted that I dealt with death too much not to learn how to nurture life.”

          When Cas doesn’t say anything, Dean blinks, extracting himself from whatever memory he’d journeyed down. He clears his throat. “Sorry, that was probably more than you wanted to know.”

          “Hardly,” Cas says before he can think better of it. “You’re an infuriatingly blank slate, Dean.”

          Where were his parents during this ordeal? His brother? Why was Dean risking his life every day only to come home, bruised and beaten, to clean his own bloodied clothes? And cleaning them incorrectly, if his tale is anything to go by.

          It makes something protective twinge in Castiel’s chest.

          Dean’s eyes are narrowed on him. “I could say the same about you.”

          Cas closes off. He digs the fork into the soil, even though he already fixed this patch. “My story is not particularly remarkable.”

          He can feel Dean’s eyes on the side of his face. “Somehow, I find that hard to believe.”

          Nothing further is said on the matter of their life stories. If learning more about Dean will be a tit-for-tat, Castiel will have to resign himself to ignorance.

          The tension eventually dissolves, and they work in silence for a while longer. Castiel forgets that his front door is open and that this is the longest he’s been outside in ages. In fact, he becomes so absorbed watching Dean and tending to the little garden that he starts when he notices how late it is. The sun has long set, the only illumination coming from the porch light above his dusty mailbox.  

          “That light has probably attracted an entire colony of moths into the house by now,” Cas groans. He gets to his feet and stretches his pleasantly sore muscles. There’s dirt caking his pants and he most assuredly has at least a kilo of soil under his fingernails, but he can’t bring himself to be upset. Working out in the garage is much different than…whatever this was. Bringing peonies to life. Planting the earth and hoping it returns the effort.

          “Then get inside, Einstein,” Dean orders, ushering Cas into the house and shutting the door behind him. Thankfully, there are no winged insects fluttering around the living room.

While Dean washes up, Cas taps the counter tiles to activate Grace and orders them burgers, fries, and pie for dessert. He’d tried a variety of meals on Dean-much to his chagrin, of course- over the past week and found the perfect combination. Dean ate anything Castiel magicked in, but there’s a hearty gusto in how he eats burgers that amuses Castiel.

          With a pulse of magic, the food arrives on the counter, plated and prepared. Cas takes a quick shower and returns in time to eat dinner warm. On the counter, Dean’s plate is untouched. Odd; he wasn’t exactly shy about how hungry he was while they gardened.

          “You didn’t have to wait for me,” Castiel ventures, sliding onto the stool opposite Dean.

          “What kind of heathen do you take me for?” Dean says, shaking his head with mock-offense. “Honestly.”

          Cas rolls his eyes, hiding his smile in a healthy bite of burger. Comfortable silence reigns while they polish off their meals. Truth be told, having guests hasn’t been too unbearable. It’s nice, having someone around to complain to when his potions don’t cooperate or something he reads doesn’t make sense. Although he plays it down, Dean’s avidly interested in Composition, always peppering Castiel with questions about this or that. He’s strictly forbidden from going into any room of the house without Castiel being present. And even with that amendment, Cas is developing a crick in his neck from maintaining a visual on Dean’s explorations while he works.

          Either by design or fortune, the night of Castiel’s nightmare didn’t come up again. Somehow in the last week, Cas has grown to genuinely enjoy Dean’s company, to be comforted by the sounds of him puttering around late in the evening or seeing his bare foot sticking up from the corner of the couch while he reads. Even Sam has become a fixture, albeit a literal, comatose one.

          The takeaway message being that Castiel is in serious, unprecedented danger of getting attached to something he should’ve never had in the first place.

          He’s in a mood when he gets up to wash their dishes. Dean tags alone, plucking a towel to dry while Castiel washes. There’s no point telling Dean to go sit down; the man’s more tenacious than congealed mareshade.

          “Okay, so, here’s the thing. Don’t get me wrong, I’m loving this whole insta-meal setup you’ve got going on, but I think it’s about high time I start pulling my weight around here,” Dean declares. The sponge stills around the rim of the plate Castiel’s scrubbing, but Dean doesn’t notice. “Tomorrow, you and I are hitting the market for some grub. I’m going to cook your socks off.”

          Cas forces himself to finish scrubbing the plate. “You don’t have to do that. Really, it’s no bother ordering. Has the food not been satisfactory?”

          Dean twirls the towel idly. “Nah, the food’s great. But you’ve gotta have racked up one hell of a bill-yes, Cas, that matters-and I’m no leech.”

          “You’re not a leech by any stretch of the imagination. How about I order the raw ingredients and you cook?” Anything to nix a trip to the market. Cas not wanting to leave the house isn’t exactly groundbreaking news, but what’s worse? What’s astronomically, infinitely, fucking _catastrophically_ worse is how little Castiel wants Dean to leave, even for a short grocery run.

          Dean finishes drying the last dish, and Cas occupies himself scrubbing non-existent residue around the tiles. Maybe Dean will drop it. He’s been quite considerate of Castiel’s various quirks thus far.

          “Riddle me this, Cas,” Dean says softly. “A successful, wealthy, easy-on-the-eyes Magi who doesn’t date, doesn’t leave the house, and powerful enough he could nuke the country with a twitch. What’s eating at this guy-what’s happened to him to get him like this?”

          “Perhaps this Magi’s affairs are nobody’s business,” Castiel clips. Instead of heeding the warning in Castiel’s frosty tone, Dean purses his lips and says, “That’s hardly fair.”

          “Come now, Dean.” There’s no trace of the camaraderie from earlier. “I would think a Slayer of all people isn’t naïve enough to believe in the concept of ‘fair’.”

          Hurt flashes across Dean’s face, gone in a blink and replaced with indignation. Dean balls up the towel and tosses it by the sink. Without looking at Cas, he spins on his heel and storms down the hall.

          The rest of the night is spent with Dean slamming around the weights in the garage while Cas, angry and guilty, and angry _over_ his guilt, flips through the _Learning and Behavior_ textbook. The underlined sentence at the bottom of the page jumps out at him.

          _Variety is the spice of life._

He throws the book at the wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ran a little longer than I'd like, but eh, who's counting?  
> I've been trying to make a tumblr all day, but the app keeps crapping out on me. Still, my username is 'atarnishedcompass'. Even though it looks empty, I'm there, so if any of y'all non-Twitter using folk wanna go and ask questions about the fic, spn, or just la vida loca in general, swing on down. 
> 
> If not, drop a comment and I'll catch ya next Friday!


	5. Once Drowned, Twice Reborn

Chapter 5- Once Died, Twice Reborn

Dean’s world doesn’t make a lick of sense.

          In what sane, rational world does he get worked up because a Magi with a fifteen-foot stick up his ass wants to waste money on PayPerMeal dinners? Where he lifts weights until his arms give out to sweat off the lingering distress of having Cas shut down on him like that?

          Not any world Dean wants to be a part of, that’s for damn sure.

          He’s not even sure why he cares. Just, it was so _sudden_. One minute they’re two dudes planting peonies-one activity he’s relieved Sam wasn’t around to witness- and the next Cas flips a switch and ices Dean like he’s still the stranger at his door.

          Being stuck in the house hasn’t done marvels for his sanity, either. He’s been reluctant to leave Sam alone, but that’s not why he hasn’t gotten behind Baby’s wheel in much too long. After all, Cas could’ve offed them both a while ago if that was his goal. What’s keeping Dean here is that he thinks if he walks out the door, Cas won’t let him back in. It’s paranoid, yeah, but who can blame him? A simple suggestion to visit the grocery store has Dean in the doghouse.

          If he could understand what it is about the outside world that freaks Cas out, he might be more careful about overstepping.

          Dean’s mature response to Castiel’s brush-off has been active avoidance. Cas goes to the kitchen, Dean ducks into the garage. Cas goes to the cauldron room, Dean goes to the living room. It’s been like this all day, and no amount of pep talks can convince Dean to confront Cas. Not like he’s making much effort to work it out with Dean.

          As much as Dean wants to toss the book he’s reading onto the floor-or worse, dogear it- he resists. He’s still a guest. He’s still got his manners, if not his marbles.

          His palm tingles, the third time today. A summons. Apparently the network hasn’t gotten the memo that Dean’s number is temporarily out of service.

          Cas is working. Dean should probably check if its okay to accept the call.

          He _should_.

          Dean claps his palms together once, then faces them outward, toward the bookcase.

          A gold shimmer appears, like a swarm of light bugs bumping together. Dean rests his palms on his thighs, and the swarm solidifies into the familiar ugly mug of a short, stocky Irish man.

          “So you _are_ alive,” Crowley says crisply. “I had doubts.”

          Dean settles back against the couch. He hates dealing with his handler, but Crowley’s the best in the business. He has Dean working the gig before it hits any other Slayer radar, and while he grouches over Dean’s No-Kill List, he respects it. Although Crowley’s never admitted it, Dean’s pretty sure he’s his favorite client. He’s got a mouth and an attitude, and there’s no love lost between them, but Dean is also the best. He’s the man to beat, and though tons of suckers have tried, Dean’s still the best Slayer on this side of the coast.

          “I’m taking a leave of absence. Thought that was obvious.”

          “A notice would have been helpful. May I ask how long you intend to be out?”

          Dean very definitely doesn’t glance to Sam’s bed. Far as Crowley knows, Dean’s had no more dealings with his family. It makes assigning him the more dangerous gigs easier. Apparently under the bravado and snark is the faintest trace of a conscience.

          “That’s up in the air.”

          “Lovely,” Crowley grits. “Nothing I can do to entice you? A Level Three Ravine killed a family down in Louisiana. Local police can’t find it.”

          Jesus. Ravine’s weren’t a picnic on a good day, but an L3 would take at least a few weeks to track and take down.

          “Not interested. Stop calling, Crowley. You’ll be the first to know when I’m open for business.”

          Instead of responding, Crowley’s gaze fixes on something over Dean’s shoulder.

          Shock, confusion, awe, and then an emotion Dean’s never seen Crowley wear in the five years they’ve worked together cross his face.

          When Dean identifies it, he’s taken aback. Crowley’s _afraid._

          “Castiel Krushnic?” Crowley whispers. “Oh my God. You’re alive.”

          Dean’s embarrassment takes a backseat to bewilderment. Crowley knows Cas?

          Cas appears in his line of sight. The smell of ash and chemicals hangs on his clothes.

          And the way he’s looking at Crowley has Dean realizing that the frosty look he got in the kitchen? Yeah, that’s just the tip of the iceberg.

          A terrifying, bone-chilling iceberg.

          Castiel walks right up to Crowley’s image. “What did you say?”

          And Crowley, seedy and snarky Crowley, _shrinks away_.

          A wave of magic blasts from Cas, sending Dean clutching the arm of the couch and gasping. Something shatters in the kitchen.

          Then Castiel reaches forward and wraps his hand around Crowley’s throat.

          Given that Crowley is literally a projection, a collection of waves and light fragments in Castiel’s living room, physical contact should be impossible. It’s the equivalent of reaching into a Mortal television set and high-fiving the cast.

          Yet Crowley is very clearly turning purple as Castiel’s chokehold brings Crowley to his knees. Crowley scratches at Castiel’s hand, fighting for air, but Castiel’s expression is impassive. Brutal.

          “Castiel Krushnic is not alive. Is he? Is Castiel Krushnic alive, worm?”

          Crowley shakes his head vigorously within his limited range of movement.

          Cas tilts his head. It’s merciless, calculating, and it renders Dean as breathless as Crowley.

          He loosens his hand. Crowley gasps for air. “There, there,” Cas coos, patting Crowley’s bearded cheek. “Run along now.”

          Crowley vanishes.

          In an instant, Dean is off the couch and poised in front of Sam’s bed. He brushes his thumbs along the cold bands of his rings, but he doesn’t activate any of his weapons. He figures he owes Cas that much. Cas is still staring at the spot where Crowley was, and Dean is scared, dammit, scared because somehow in this buddy-comedy he forgot that Cas is an X-range Magi, and oh, most likely insane.

          “Don’t be afraid, Dean.” Castiel’s gravelly voice is tired.

          “How did you do that? That’s impossible. You shouldn’t have been able to touch him.” Fabulous; he’s hysterical.

          Cas lifts his hand, flexing his fingers speculatively. A pulse of ashy magic has Dean’s teeth clenching. “And yet, I could and I did.”

          “No shit. You tried to kill my handler.”

          At this, Cas turns fully towards Dean. Gone is the pitiless monster who bent space and magic to strangle a stranger. This Cas pinches the bridge of his nose and shoots Dean a weary, reproachful look.

          “Your handler shouldn’t have been in my living room. I thought I made it abundantly clear that I value my privacy.”

          “Don’t flip this on me! What the hell is going on, Cas? How does Crowley know who you are? Why did he think you were dead?

 How stupid does he have to be to antagonize a nuclear bomb? Pretty fucking stupid. But like hell is Dean backing down.

          Cas is silent. Dean presses his advantage. “Who the fuck are you, Castiel Krushnic?”

          Lightning-fast, Castiel closes the distance between them. There’s no time to react; Dean is caught.

          Bottomless, impossibly blue eyes burn into him. A basic drive, borne of the need to survive and see another day, urges Dean to mimic Crowley and submit. To lay down arms at this man’s feet.

          Fuck that.

          Drawing himself up to his full height, Dean matches Cas in a glower, brushing his chest against the other man’s. “Buddy, I don’t do games. Kill me or tell me the truth.”

          Cas arches a dark brow. “That’s not how a threat works, Dean.”

Smartass. It has not escaped Dean’s notice that he and Cas are practically flush against each other. The last time he was this close to a dude he had black eyes and Dean’s knife plugged into his gut.

          The weird thing is, Dean’s not annoyed by the nearness. He’s not shuffling away or searching for an escape route. In fact, a part of Dean’s brain-the southern operational systems- is wondering how Cas would react if Dean brushed the back of his knuckles against the light shadow of stubble on Castiel’s jaw. Wonders if the same defiance would flash across those blazing blue eyes should Dean yank his head and bare Castiel’s throat. That caged power and anger Dean’s to control.

          What the actual _fuck_?

          Dean does lift his hands, but it’s too shove Cas back. Bastard only rocks back on his heels, but its enough for Dean to squeeze from his sandwich of bed and body and maneuver so the expanse of the living room is at his back.

          It takes a few seconds longer than necessary for Cas to angle towards him. When he does, Dean knows the worst is over. His Castiel is back, mouth downturned and resigned.

          Dean chooses not to dwell on why…well, why everything in his brain is currently two left turns off the deep end. _His_ Cas? _His_?

          “So, you kill somebody? Some Ravine hybrid?” Dean asks harshly. “Is that what you were planning on doing with me and Sam? Patch him up so he’s fat with magic so you can drain us dry?”

          Cas doesn’t dignify Dean’s accusation with a response.

          He seems conflicted, waging an invisible war with himself. He must come to a decision, because he drops onto the couch and gestures for Dean to join him.

          “I’m good where I am.”

          “Do you want answers or not?”

          Asshole. But Dean’s stubborn too, wedging himself in the farthest corner of the couch.

          For some reason, that causes Castiel’s lips to quirk up.

          Dean’s most definitely not tracing the shape of Castiel’s pillowy mouth when, without further adieu, Cas dives in.

          “When I was four years old, I died.”

         

 

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          Somewhere in the world, Castiel’s mother is furious and without a clue to the cause.

          _This is a family secret, Castiel. It is not yours to tell. You must protect this family from what you are._

An abomination.

          Yet here he is, seated across from a man he’s known a week who less than thirty seconds ago accused him of attempted murder.

          Amara Krushnic would not be pleased.

          “You…died?” Dean echoes. “You’re not really a joking kind of guy, but hey, are you joking?”

          “No, and I’m afraid I’ll need you to save your questions until the end.” Elsewise Cas might come to his senses and wipe Dean’s memory while he sleeps. Which he’s considering doing anyway.

          “I did, in fact, die. My parents were occupied. They thought I was playing with the dogs, but I was trying to reach for a leaf in the pool.”

          Castiel still remembers that leaf. He remembers everything about that day vividly, despite his young age. The leaf was yellow and stiff, holes across its spine where it had crumbled from ago. The broken edges softened in the water. It was an unremarkable leaf; ugly, really.

          “I leaned forward and fell in. I don’t recall dying; one minute I was struggling the water, and the next I wasn’t. I was nothing.”

          On the other side of the couch, Dean’s breath is suspended, held in psychosomatic sympathy to Castiel’s younger self.

          “I drowned. For two minutes, I was clinically dead. My father fished me out of the water and resuscitated me. My mother was already wailing, because I was blue and cold and she’s not a woman who puts much stock in miracles. But my father has always been a believer, and likes to think that he breathed some of that belief into me that night. At the hospital, the medmages checked for brain damage, but there was none. It really seemed like a miracle.”

          Cas pauses, because this is where it matters. This is where trust he’s blindly, foolishly giving could crucify him. It could force his hand against Dean, a thought that makes Castiel sick to his stomach.

          “But it wasn’t a miracle; it was a curse. The death I evaded followed me back.”

          He folds his hands over his lap and draws his leg back slightly, positioning himself for the best view of Dean. As much as it pains him to consider, it isn’t far-fetched that Dean might still make an attempt on Castiel’s life.

          “When I turned five, I asked my mother what the numbers meant. She wanted to know what I was talking about, and telling her that I see numbers in my head when I look into anyone’s eyes landed me in a psychiatric ward. Eventually, when people began to die on the predicted dates, she signed off on my release.” The guilt his joy over Mrs. McNeil’s passing, of being proven _right_ , hasn’t faded over the years.

          Dean holds up a finger, deep grooves lining his forehead. “Back up. The numbers…were people’s death dates?”

          “I prefer to think of it as their expiration date, considering death isn’t always the end, but yes.”

          Dean reply is immediate. “That’s impossible.”

          “Yet here I am.”

          If it wasn’t abundantly obvious by the muscles working in Dean’s jaw, his suspicion would have been broadcast by the jagged pulses in his magic. Normally, Cas could set his watch to the even thumps of Dean’s magic. It’s his second heartbeat, and most Magi try harder to mask their magic. For them, it is private, not to be shared with a stranger on the bus. From what Castiel’s come to admire of Dean’s character, he doesn’t feel the compulsion to hide his nature.

          “Cas, you can’t be Gifted and a Magi. You’re the one who did the animation shit and went through the whole lecture.”

          “I remember,” Cas says dryly. “You’re right. I have no explanation for it.”

          “Are you…” Dean swallows. “Cas, are you a reaper?”

          He considers it a testament to the leaps and bounds their civilized relationship has made that Dean doesn’t ask the question while brandishing an Eviscerate-loaded pistol or whatever pointy contraptions hide in his rings.

          “No,” he answers, and it’s the closest he’s come to lying yet. “But I do have abilities that are not unlike that of a reaper.”

          Dean stands and paces the length of the living room. He rakes his hand through his hair, drags his knuckles across his jaw, anything but looking at Castiel.

          The sting of rejection pierces through him, shockingly painful. His mother’s voice echoes to him, languishing in satisfaction.

          _You are an abomination, Castiel. No one who knows you, knows the real you, will be able to accept you._

“Okay, so,” Dean interrupts Castiel’s demons, sitting on the edge of the coffee table to face Cas. His hands wind fretfully in the space between his parted knees. “How does it work? You just look at someone and know?”

          He wants to understand. He’s giving Cas a chance.

          The flood of relief that brings Castiel is heady.

          “Have you heard the Mortal saying? I believe it refers to eyes as the windows to the soul.”

          “I’ve heard it.”

          “Right.” Cas licks dry lips. “I can see through that window. Every soul is born with an expiration date that becomes visible to me through their eyes.”

          “How long do you have to look, though?” Dean asks, and doesn’t stop there. He has questions Castiel never considered, duration and perception (“So you see it in your head? Like, it reflects into your mind’s eye?”), and Castiel learns that not only is Dean protective, generous, and kind, but he’s _sharp._

          When the barrage subsides, Cas is almost regretful. Dean’s next question, unfortunately, launches him into fully regretful. “I have to ask, man. What’s mine say?”

          Cas gazes into Dean’s apple green eyes, beautiful eyes he’s seen narrowed and distrustful, wide and astonished. Bright, lovely, and as clean as the day Cas first saw them.

          “I don’t know.”

          “Huh? You just said-”

          “I know what I said. In all my life, I have never been wrong about an expiration date. I have never been acquainted with someone without knowing when they would meet their end. But with you…nothing. Not a hint.”

          Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m not sure how to feel about that.”

          “That’s perfectly understandable. The only creatures whose expirations are a mystery to me are Ravines, because they are soulless.”

          Dean glance up is hard. “I have a soul, Cas.” He snorts into the fist pressed to his chin. “At least your weird rambling the other night makes sense now.”

          The night Dean held Castiel’s hands between his own and healed him with an airy brush of his magic.

          “What about Sammy? His eyes were open when you found him. Did you see his expiration?”

          A lie is on the tip of Castiel’s tongue, but something in his expression must give away the truth, because Dean freezes. “You did. Fuck. That’s…that’s why you kept saying he wasn’t going to die that day. Because you know when he’s supposed to die.”

          “Dean-”

          “Tell me. I need to know.”

          “You think you do, but trust me, if there is such a thing as evil knowledge, this is it.”

          They’re both glaring. So much for a civil conversation. The last thing Castiel wants to do is fight with Dean again, but he’s also not going to cripple him with Sam’s expiration date.

          “I have a right to know. He’s my brother,” Dean growls.

          “Which is exactly why you shouldn’t. Think about it, please, just for a moment. Imagine not only knowing Sam’s days are numbered, but what that number is. And you can’t ever tell him, because it would drive him to madness. Is that a burden you want to bear, Dean?” _A burden you expect me to be cruel enough to heap on your shoulders?_

Sam’s prone form draws both their gazes. Anguish in Dean’s that reaffirms Castiel’s decision. No one, especially Dean Winchester, deserves to live with the specter of death looming over their loved ones.

          Love isn’t a factor in Castiel’s life. He’s safe from whatever turmoil Dean is undergoing. The cold slice of mortality people suffer at death’s touch has long since numbed in Castiel.

          “It’s not…anytime soon, right?” At Castiel’s frown, he quickly adds, “That’s all I’ll ask. Promise.”

          The amount of control this man wields over Castiel is dangerous. Cas can’t deny him. “Sam will live a long life, Dean.”

          Air leaves Dean’s lungs in a whoosh, and his magic, which was beating a staccato rhythm of panic, settles. He runs a hand over his face. “Okay. That’s-yeah. S’good, real good.”

          “I hope you don’t think I forgot about all that Godfather action with Crowley,” Dean says when he’s gathered himself. “But I’m not gonna push.”

          It simultaneously amuses and annoys Castiel that Dean thinks he’s entitled to Castiel’s secrets. Although, from his perspective, it makes sense why sharing quarters with a ‘magical powerkeg’ is disquieting without the added worries. Dean may be taking the revelation about Castiel’s biologically impossible existence in stride, but he might not react so well if Cas told him the reason his handler cowered is because Castiel Krushnic has legions of Keepers scouring the country, vying for the honor of arresting him. Greedy, childish fools, the lot of them. Castiel’s real enemies…they’re clever, more patient. With them, it’s personal, which means Castiel will never truly stop running from them.  

          “One last thing.” Dean’s hand lands heavily on Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel braces himself.

          “We’re going to the damn grocery store. Come willingly or trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. Both work for me.”

          Castiel rolls his eyes, but a smile plays at the corner of his mouth. He peels Dean’s fingers off. “Alright. We can go to your precious grocery store.”

          Dean pumps his fist in the air. “Yes!”

          Standing, Castiel dusts himself off, shaking the metaphorical veil of vulnerability he’d donned for the conversation. Enough of that.

          “Just for the record, Dean,” Cas drawls, “I’m not the one who gets tied up.”

          With a smirk, Castiel leaves Dean choking on his tongue and slides on his coat, the last defense against his newest adversary.

          The grocery store.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter is on the shorter side, so I might post again before next Friday. Hopefully.  
> ALSO I forgot to credit the person who came up with the most possibilities for Dean's rings. Alessariel, I'm looking at you and your amazingly well thought-out suggestions!
> 
> See ya soon,  
> Jessa


	6. Until Today's Tomorrow

Chapter Six- Until Today's Tomorrow 

Dean is a self-proclaimed ‘zoomer’.

          According to him, that means Castiel is to keep ‘his filthy paws’ off the cart while Dean rolls around the aisles. He’s humming an obscure melody and ignoring the disgruntled glances he gets from other shoppers who aren’t as amused as Castiel is by Dean’s childlike enthusiasm. At this Mortal grocery store, Dean is at his element.

          Castiel wishes he understood why; the carts don’t float, the aisles are cramped with arbitrarily organized products, and people actually waffle over purchasing decisions at the counter. There’s absolutely no logical reason Dean would prefer this chaos over the efficiency of a Magi-run plaza. There, you list the items you intend to purchase, burn it on the complementary sage, and find everything packaged and presented for you.

          “How is this preferable to Banning District?” Cas inquires. Good Lord, is that an actual butcher behind the meat counter? What’s next, a sentient cashier?

          “You’d rather a spell have all the fun instead?”

          Dean’s being sarcastic, but Cas isn’t. “Yes.”

          A woman bumps into Castiel with her cart and grimaces apologetically. Claustrophobia; another issue Magi shouldn’t endure on a grocery run. Thankfully, he averts his gaze in time to avoid catching the woman’s eye.

          “Live a little, Cas,” Dean says, jauntily scuffing his shoe against the linoleum, sending the cart speeding forward with Dean in tow.

          Unbidden, the memory of the last time those words were tossed at Castiel surges forth.

          _“Live a little, Cassie!” Balthazar taunts from across the pool of fire._

_High above them, a young Filipino woman screams, struggling against her restraints. Her shrill cries are piercing through Castiel’s pleasant buzz._

_Poised behind the girl, Meg nudges her forward with a kick to the spine. The girl falls to her knees on the precipice of the diving board, shrinking away from the drop into Balthazar’s makeshift hell._

_“C’mon, lets see if you can get it up!” Balthazar claps, and the flames roar, crackling monstrously in the humid summer night. Awash in the dancing shadows of his makeshift hell, Balthazar’s features look monstrous. Cruel._

_“Ugh. I don’t have time for this,” Meg complains loudly, and backhands the open air. The girl goes flying._

_Her bloodcurdling shriek effectively douses the rest of Castiel’s high. This is precisely why he refuses to spend time with Meg and Balthazar outside of business hours. The concept of solitary leisure evades them._

_Cas thrusts his palm forward, freezing the girl midair. The fire pops, enraged at the denial of its prey. With a bored flick, he portals the girl back to wherever these two found her. Despite his reputation, Castiel isn’t one for inflicting pain gratuitously, and he’s not going to indulge Balthazar’s asinine goading._

_Balthazar collapses on the lounge chair beside him.  “You are such a buzz-kill.”_

_Above them, Meg cuts an ethereal figure against the starry sky as she dives into the restored pool. The water ripples, and the night is quiet again._

         

“That time of the month, huh?” Dean rolls to a stop next to where Castiel is stalled in front of a row of feminine hygiene products. “This explains a lot.”

“You are aware I can snuff out your existence with a snap of my fingers, correct?”

          Dean grins cheekily. “Keep it in your pants, buddy. I already know you’re packing.”

          He wheels away, leaving Cas to trudge after him, bothered by more than he can name.

 

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          Although he’s mastered the art of the poker face, Dean’s mind is reeling. Bruce Lee roundhouse upper-cut combo reeling.

          As a person with two brain cells that occasionally rub together and form a thought, Dean should be scared shitless. The revelation that Cas was a Magi-Gifted hybrid triggered every one of Dean’s alarms, because the only thing worse than relying on someone else to take care of Sam is relying on a dude who should, for all intents and purposes, be locked up in a lab somewhere.

          But the thing is, Dean’s not freaking out. There’s no itch to run, to pack up and fuck off to whatever hellhole Crowley designates for Dean’s next gig.

          How is he supposed to be intimidated by a guy who studies a box of Kraft Mac’ n Cheese like it’s the answer key to his college term paper? With his brows drawn together, lower lip caught between his teeth in concentration, he’s kind of adorable. And that is not a word Dean throws around often.

          “Are these directions accurate?” Cas asks as soon as Dean’s rolled close. “You simply boil the macaroni and distribute the flavor packets to prepare a fit meal?”

          “Not much fitness involved, but yep.”

          “Amazing.” Castiel beams at Dean. It’s wide and almost childlike, and it sends warms something deep inside him. Jesus, with a face like that, Cas could announce he’s using flavor packets as a new deodorant and Dean would offer him the Nobel prize.

          Which is ridiculous, for a lot of reasons Dean’s not gonna delve into.

          But, that face.

          “You’re right, Dean. This is much less wasteful than PayPerMeal,” Cas continues, oblivious to Dean being a massive fucking pervert in Aisle Five.

          He’s distracted from his seesawing hormones when Cas unceremoniously swipes half the shelf of Mac n’ Cheese into the cart.

          “The fu- this is way too much!”

          “You’re right. We’ll need another cart.” Cas hurries to the front of the store before Dean can launch into a lecture on the dangers of high sodium content.

          Mother of Batman, he’s turning into Sammy.

          Thinking about his bedridden brother dampens Dean’s mood. He’s still got no idea what Sam was doing near a Devourer. Last they spoke, Sam was interning at the Magi Council of Interspecies Relations, also known as the Council of Smelly Old Dickbags.

          He also, in no uncertain terms, told Dean that if he didn’t ‘straighten up his act’ and ‘get a grown-up job’, he’d have nothing more to do with him.

          Since he has no intention of being a straight-edge cog in the Magi machine, Dean directed Sam on where to shove it and hung up.

          What the hell kind of mess has Sam gotten into in the last eight months?

          The question lingers the entire shopping trip. Cas is a good distraction, since the dude is like a kid at a candy shop now that he’s discovered the decadence of buying on whim instead of purpose. Dean spends most of the time talking him out of buying all the mustard in the place (“But, Dean, you enjoy this sauce. You slather copious amounts on your burger. Oh! Burgers!”) and quantities of candy that would send a village into diabetic shock.

          Dean is touched that most of the food Cas is targeting is stuff Dean likes. But when Cas suggests tripling the ingredients for pie Dean’s already carted, Dean almost says, “I won’t be here long enough to make four pies.”

          His teeth click together, catching on the words. Nausea churns in his gut when he thinks about leaving Cas alone, with nothing but potions and psychology books for company. Plus, all this food would spoil.

          So when Cas hovers a bag of apples over the cart, waiting on Dean’s permission, there’s really nothing to say but, “Grab another bag of sugar, too.” Portions be damned. “C’mon, they’re going to close soon. Let’s get to the register.”

          Each of them is navigating a full cart, brimming with enough to feed your average village and then some. The late hour means there’s no line to clog. Their cashier, a perky blonde with an upside-down nametag identifying her as ‘Becky’, visibly winces when Dean confirms that both carts are together.       

          She scans their items quickly, although it’s a slow process since the bag-boy has gone home for the night. Dean relieves the poor thing, bagging everything as soon as she slides it across.

          “Are you guys having a party? Barbeque, maybe? We might have to restock burger buns. I’ve only seen this many in a single order on Fourth of July. Which, don’t even get me started. Chaos, freaking madhouse in here. And you’ll get the occasional Magi, and we all know what snobby douchebags they can be when their fancy spells go wonky and they have to lower themselves to our mere mortal standards. They buy a ton of mayonnaise, for some reason,” Becky babbles.

          Dean doesn’t bother correcting her assumption that he and Cas are Mortals. Not like she’s wrong about Magi. Calling them hoity-toity assbags is generous.

          When she finally finishes, Cas immediately steps forward from where he’d been loitering by the magazine stand. “Is this the final price?”

          Dean gets a gander of what the final cost is and nearly blacks out.

          “You’re cracked if you think you’re paying this alone,” Dean says.

          Cas ignores him. “I assume this establishment does not utilize Prints.”

          Becky’s brows inch up, bewilderment lost on Castiel, who’s still staring resolutely at the conveyer belt. “That’s a Magi thing, so…no. Do you have a credit card?”

          “I do,” Dean butts in, fumbling to free himself from the Chinese Finger Traps better known as plastic bag handles. Shit for the environment, shittier for blood circulation.

          It’s as if he hasn’t spoken. “Here you are.” He hands Becky a black credit card, too fancy to have anything but Castiel’s name across the single silver stripe. To Dean, he elaborates, “Charlie forcibly enrolled me in a banking program, as she too frequents Mortal-operated places.”

          Crimson stains Becky’s cheeks while sliding Castiel’s card through the machine. “Um, about what I said, about Magi, I didn’t know-I didn’t mean-”

          “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart,” Dean interjects. “You’re not wrong.”

          She beams at him, and somehow Dean is sure she’s about to go off about barbeques or mayonnaise again. The machine beeps, stalling her runaway train. “Do you want your receipt?”

          The question is addressed to Cas, who remains fixated on anything that isn’t Becky. It’s getting clearer and clearer why Cas prefers not to go in public, and Dean feels a pang of remorse for roping him into an uncomfortable situation.

          “No receipt,” Dean answers. “Thing would end up being long enough to qualify as a novel.”

          Becky laughs uproariously, slapping the counter. He startles, twitching next to Cas.

          Warm blue eyes lock with his, equally amused with Becky’s over-the-top behavior. Dean tries to mouth ‘We’re splitting this later’, because like hell is he going to freeload on Cas’s couch for a week only to mooch off the guy’s generosity some more. Dean’s no leech.

          Cas arches his brow challengingly, and the display sends an odd thrill through Dean. Fuck, but he’s perversely obsessed with the slivers of dominance that slip through Castiel’s iron will every now and then.

          “Here’s your credit card, Mister,” Becky says, because Dean is staring and Cas is staring right back, and who knows how long that girls poor arm has been outstretched, waiting for someone to take the credit card?

          Finally, Cas turns to accept the card, freeing Dean from his intense hold. He’s not as put together as he was, because he doesn’t bother lowering his gaze when he reaches for the card.

          “Thank-” Castiel’s voice abruptly chokes off. The card slips from his fingers, falling into a small bowl of discounted caramels. Cas goes bone-white, posture stiff as board. He looks like he’s seen a ghost.

          Or worse… _about_ to see a ghost.

          “Are you alright?” Becky asks, equal parts concern and skittishness. She blinks owlishly.

          When Cas speaks again, his voice is robotic. “Dean, what time is it?”

          “Uh…eleven forty-five.”

          “Yeah, actually, we technically closed fifteen minutes ago, so…” Becky not-so-subtly motions to the exit. A coworker sweeping the floor a few registers down perks up, craning her neck towards them.

          “Sorry about that. We’ll get out of your hair.” Dean plucks Castiel’s credit card from the bowl and takes the other man’s elbow in an iron grip. Pushing the cart (bagging condensed their load to one cart-see, Mortals are capable of magic, too) and hauling an uncooperative, well-muscled man is no picnic.

          When they reach the exit, Cas easily shakes him off, storming past the cart corral into the mostly empty parking lot.

          Sighing, Dean slogs after him, the cart rattling against the uneven pavement. If Cas is going to have a fit, Dean will happily leave him to it. He loads up Baby, making sure each bag is carefully arranged to minimize risk of spillage. He squeezes half the groceries into the trunk. The rest he piles into the backseat.

          Cas hasn’t lifted so much as an iceberg lettuce. He’s gazing at the store, something old and haunted etched into the drawn lines of his face.

          Propping a hip against the trunk, Dean resolves to play at therapist, if it means getting the hell out of here. “Alright, enough with the brooding. You saw her expiration date, right? What is it? A year? Less?”

          When Cas doesn’t answer, Dean grunts with annoyance. “Cas, there are frozen goods defrosting in my goddamn car right now. Do you know what moisture does to leather?”

          “What time is it?”

          “Are you serious?”

          The glance Castiel aims at him is pitying. It grates on Dean.

          “It’s twelve oh-three. Why?”

          Cas’ eyes close, sooty lashes casting a harrowing contrast against his pale skin.

          “That young woman is dead.”

          Dean’s brows knit together. “That’s not funny.”

          No answer. Anger gets the better of Dean, and he shoves Castiel’s shoulder. “Why would you say that?”

          Lightning cracks across Castiel’s dark glower. “Because it is tomorrow, and Becky’s expiration date was today.”

          “You’re telling me she died in the last fifteen minutes? C’mon, Cas, that’s crazy. It’s crazy.”

          “When is it ever rational?”

          Dean starts toward the store, determined to prove Cas wrong. Because he is wrong, Gift be damned. There’s no way a girl died less than twelve yards away while he struggled to push his cart over a pothole.

          Cas catches his elbow. “Wait. Just…wait.”

          It’s a waste of breath to ask for what. Cas parcels out information at his own fucking leisure, never mind that Dean feels like he’s going to throw up.

          But Cas is wrong. He has to be.

          When another five minutes go by without a single disturbance, Dean opens his mouth, a take-that-you-smug-bastard gloating fest prepped and ready. That is, until the shriek of sirens pierces the quiet night. _Mortal_ sirens.

          Dean goes statue-still. His ears crane for the sirens, which are growing closer, not farther.

          “It’s a coincidence,” he says aloud.

          Cas exhales, his breath misting in the cold air. “Coincidence is a myth, told to comfort the many over the miseries of the few.”

          He’s had it up to _here_ with the philosophical bullshit. Cas can take his Nietzsche proverbs and stick them-

          An ambulance speeds into the lot, screeching to a sloppy halt outside the store. A police car is close behind, but the sirens are off. Blue and red wash over the scene, silent and eerie.

          Dean watches while Becky’s coworker exits the store, clinging to an officer and sobbing. She’s blubbering something into the officer’s vest, but its inaudible. It doesn’t occur to him to amplify the volume until a feather-light touch brushes the shell of his ear and ratchets the level up a million notches. 

          “She just, she was mopping the back, and there was a gallon of milk on the floor, and I t-think she slipped and h-hit her head. There was so much blood. It’s two-percent milk. It should’ve been shelved three days ago. I don’t know what it was doing there. It shouldn’t have been there. She was mopping, why didn’t she see it? Oh God, oh God, poor Becky.” The girl breaks off, dissolving into incoherency. The officer packs her into the back of the cruiser.

          A gurney makes its way outside. Shrouded under a white sheet is a slim form. Blood flowers from the top of the shape, spindles of red spreading like untended vines.  

          “DOA. Hit her head at the wrong angle, lights out,” the paramedic says, guiding the gurney into the back of the ambulance. “Call the hospital and tell them to redirect the family to the morgue.”

          “Dean. We should go. It will be problematic if we’re spotted.”

          “Problematic?” Dean echoes thinly. He touches his ear, switching off the heightened audio. He’s heard enough.

          “I know this is a lot to handle, but we need to go.”

          He allows himself to be guided into the passenger seat, the keys to Baby plucked from his numb grip. It’s a testament to how shell-shocked he is that he’s letting someone else drive Baby.

          _Redirect the family to the morgue._

_It should’ve been shelved three days ago. It shouldn’t have been there._

Why’s he acting like a basket case over this? Their lively cashier with acne scars and the gift of gab slips on some two-percent and bites it. Dean’s seen worse deaths. He’s _caused_ worse. He’s seen good people go too soon, he’s torn Ravine in half and watched the life drain out of them. Death is not a stranger to Dean. They’re practically drinking buddies.

          Callous and random, that’s the MO. Dean shouldn’t feel like he’s turned down a wrong hallway and witnessed something that was never meant for him.

          The only difference is this time, death didn’t come late and leave early. Death was on a schedule, and Cas saw what was penciled into the calendar.

          This is too much. Dean’s a womanizing Slayer who drinks too much, gets into trouble, and never remembers to buy enough clean socks.

          He shouldn’t be here. This shit is way above his pay grade.

          He’s not proud to admit he spends most of the car ride in a near-catatonic state, the mantra _don’t belong don’t belong don’t belong_ playing over and over in his head like a broken record.

          It’s not until the cold seeps through his jacket that Dean notices the engine’s been off for a while. Cas sits quietly in the driver’s seat.  

          “I deal with death all the time,” Dean says.

          “I know.”

          “This isn’t a big deal. I’ve seen and done worse.”

          “I believe you.”

          “Then what the fuck am I feeling right now, Cas? Huh? If you’re so smart, tell me what this feeling is because I don’t know, and-and-I can’t, I’m out of my league here, I shouldn’t have _known_ she was going to die before she did, not without trying to help, that’s the whole point of what I do, I should have-”

          A smooth hand closes over his mouth. Castiel’s tone is sorrowful, but tinged with resignation. “You couldn’t have helped her, Dean. She is not the first imminent expiration I’ve seen. I warn them, I intervene, I lock them up in an empty room and try to wait it out. But it’s like trying to defy gravity. It’s a fate, a force that won’t be circumvented. One way or another, Becky was not going to live to see the conclusion of this day. There’s nothing you or I, or any earthly power, could have done.”

           Dean shakes his head, his words still dammed by Castiel’s hand. He’s not denying what Cas is saying, but a very human part of him rejects the concept of inevitability, of _fate_.

          Cas seems to understand that, because his hand slips off Dean’s mouth to his jaw, cupping it gently. Before Dean’s higher reasoning can kick in, he leans into the touch, his lips ghosting over Cas’s palm. For a minute, sitting in his beloved Impala, Castiel’s warmth against his cheek, Dean feels calm. He feels safe, for the first time in forever, despite everything.

          And it’s that dangerous illusion that Dean’s never let himself indulge that has him violently recoiling from Cas.

          Castiel’s hand hangs in the air for a millisecond that has Dean a shade away from bursting into flames of humiliation before it drops. It takes three tries to unbuckle his seatbelt.

          Shit, _shit,_ there’s too much happening in his head. He can’t be construing Cas being comforting into Cas _caring_. Dean’s just blowing it all out of proportion because Cas has dark tousled sex-hair and chapped pink lips and an intensity that he’d initially compared to constipation but is starting to understand is a sort of coiled willpower, a tightly leashed animal, and it’s driving him right out of his-

          “We should unload the groceries,” Cas says, not a hint that anything out of the usual has transpired in his mild inflection.

          Dean whirls around. “Dammit, the leather!”

         

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          They unpack the groceries quickly and quietly. Having a stocked kitchen is oddly pleasant. Not that Cas has any idea what to do with it. Once Dean leaves most of the food will undoubtedly go bad.

          Because Dean will leave. And soon, if Sam’s ever-improving condition is any indication.

          Dinner was leftovers from yesterday, since Dean didn’t have the energy to cook, an irony Cas allowed to pass unacknowledged. After all, leaving things unacknowledged seems to be Dean’s method of operation.

          Not that Castiel is any better. It’s been hours since the disastrous trip to the grocery store, and Castiel’s been sweating in the cauldron room since, trying to _force_ this useless heap of herbs and enchantments to do what they were meant to. He just wants something to be successful about tonight. Cas redoubles his efforts, stirring the syrupy concoction boiling merrily in the cauldron. He’s tense and frustrated, and while a portion of that might be due to the Mortal cashier’s untimely demise, Castiel isn’t delusional enough to think it had that profound effect on him. It certainly isn’t going to be his fondest memory, but it was miniscule, forgettable in the grand scheme of Castiel’s life.

          But watching Dean come to grips with the fickle state of mortality? To watch the pain, the helplessness, the remorse that broke Castiel in increments darken Dean’s bright soul?

          He nearly crawled out of his skin, desperate to beat it back, _needing_ to take it away.  

          And while Dean may be content to pretend nothing out of the ordinary happened in the privacy of his precious Impala, Castiel is not.

          For one perfect moment, Castiel thought he saw the same brutal need burning through him reflected in Dean. But it must have been a cruel trick, a hallucination conjured to slake the beast clamoring for release in Castiel’s chest. Assuaging his guilt over his licentious imagination.

          Bubbles form on the surface of the potion instead of settling on the bottom. Cas groans. Another waste of supplies, another failure. First he’s unable to help Kevin with his sudden-necrosis phenomena, and now he can’t stir up a simple Lucid elixir. He has contracts with multiple companies, and the pharmaceutical agencies are the most likely to hound Castiel if he doesn’t deliver on time.

          He slouches into his chair. It’s unbearably muggy this close to the steaming cauldron. Cas peels off his sweaty shirt and tosses it across the room.

          Dean’s mouth was soft and damp against his palm. How would those lips feel against his own? Against his nipples, or his throat?

          How would they feel wrapped around his cock?

          All it takes is a single mental image of Dean on his knees, absurdly pretty mouth stretched wide to swallow him down, and Cas is hard as stone. He adjusts the tight stretch of his jeans with bewildered annoyance.

          Severing himself from his old life forced him to reevaluate many traits and habits he’d always assumed were intrinsic. Control, power, ambition, and prestige formed the cornerstones of Castiel’s existence. He was a man who knew where he excelled and how to be the best.

          And being the best means control, something his straining erection is currently compromising.

          Cas checks that the hall is clear and darts into his room. He listens, but there are no signs of Dean approaching. Perhaps he went to sleep.

          That conjures up a fantasy of what Dean would look like lounging on Castiel’s sheets.

          Dean seems like he’d be the type to sleep naked. On his stomach, the tanned expanse of his back rising gently with each breath. Castiel’s mind drifts lower, to the groove at the base of his spine, to an ass that’s slightly paler than the rest of him, round globes smooth and begging to be bitten, pushed apart and licked into. The sounds that would leave Dean’s mouth as Castiel ravaged his opening with his tongue, his fingers, begging for _more, more,_ writhing beneath Castiel.

The bowlegs that lend Dean his macho swagger would spread to accommodate Castiel as he pushed into his lover, burying himself in tight heat, spread himself over Dean, kissing the shell of his ear, the back of his neck, breathing praise as he took what Dean would desperately give. So perfect, his Dean.

          Cas jerks off for the first time in a year, a few hard tugs of his swollen cock the only necessary effort to paint the shower walls with come. He drops his forehead against the slick tile, the warm water sluicing over his hunched form.

          Nothing’s changed. He’s still the same depraved, hollow man who chases his own pleasure over everything else. Bringing in Dean and his injured brother was meant to be the first payment in Castiel’s long overdue karmic debt. Craving Dean like he was a dose of the drugs Cas manufactured and distributed for six years, heedless of who got hurt in the undertow of his own greed? That’s surely a sign that Castiel’s doomed, his character as inevitable as the fate that claimed young Becky.

          Character isn’t malleable, but motive is. For as long as he’s known he should, Castiel’s studied people. After all, there isn’t much to do when your parents ship you off to a Magi Efficacy School for the troubled and twisted and pretend you never existed.

          Ferreting out a lie from truth became effortless, but finding the motivation behind the lie took more skill, more time. Necessary, though, because it was the only factor that made a difference. People lied for love, money, or greed, and once Castiel found the strings pulling them, it was laughably easy to become the puppeteer himself.

          And once he learned how to craft the next best high, their strings became chains.

          It’s a defensive maneuver on his part nowadays, as necessary as counting the exits or planning an unfamiliar route. Dean Winchester, a man who intimidates and inspires, kills and maims, could be brought to heel by the a simple threat to the young man lying comatose in Castiel’s living room. Ruled by love, he’d be putty in the wrong hands. Hands like Castiel’s. Maybe that’s why he ran from him-on some level, Dean is aware being touched by Castiel is being sullied.

          Cas gets changed into a sweatshirt and flannel bottoms and wanders listlessly into the kitchen. Instead of weighing him into sleep, his thoughts have multiplied into a rictus of despair.

          A tentative glance into the living room confirms that Dean is asleep on the couch-which he hasn’t bothered to transfigure into a bed since the first night-and shivering. The blankets are bunched at his feet again.

          Grinding his teeth, Cas resolutely ignores the man singlehandedly unraveling his sanity and pilfers the bottom cabinets. An array of tiny, colored vials weave forward for Castiel’s perusal, magic extended with extreme delicacy to prevent the glass from so much as clinking together.

          He finds what he’s searching for and toes the cabinet shut. The light thud has him wincing, tensing for movement from behind.

          Cas pours the green vial into a glass of water, tapping the neck with his index finger to free every loose drop. The elixir swirls lazily in the water, ropes of emerald forming a helix before dissipating.

          He downs the glass, temperance be damned. He leaves it in the sink, along with the empty vial, and rounds the counter. The potion is fast-acting, and Castiel has to grasp the wall to keep from pitching to the floor when the dizziness hits.

          Halfway down the hall, he stops, engages in a short but intense mental battle, then marches back to the couch.

          Not in the mood to be zapped into a tortoise or across the Atlantic, Cas forgoes magic and manually draws the blankets over Dean. He wants to tuck them around his shoulders to keep him from accidentally dislodging them again, but that would surely wake Dean up, and then what would Cas do?

          As soon as the blankets settle around Dean’s shoulders, he exhales and nuzzles into the fabric, drawing it to his cheek. Another wave of weariness tides over Castiel, but he can’t bring himself to walk away.

          This isn’t the danger Castiel was worried about when he invited Dean into his home.

          This danger is foreign and a thousand times deadlier than Eviscerate or curses or a knife to his throat. Whatever it is that has Cas wanting to crouch on the floor until dawn to make sure Dean stays warm, to run his hands through the dusky gold hair framing a face that would make an angel weep?

          Whatever this is, it’s something beyond Castiel’s defenses.

          Dean makes a snuffling noise and pops his foot from under the blanket. It spurs Cas to action, and he drags his alarmingly heavy limbs towards the hall. He gets all of three steps in when his body stops cooperating, sleep barreling into him like an oncoming train.  

          Cas slumps onto the carpet, his last thought a self-congratulatory one, because he might be spending the night passed out and hypothermic in the hallway, but at least this potion is a success. 


	7. Live Wire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise bonus chapter in honor of Thanksgiving!!! Aka, a little somethin' somethin' to distract you from an troublesome relatives. And you guys are so freaking awesome with your feedback that I couldn't resist.

Chapter 7- Live Wire

An insistent drone is disturbing Castiel’s well-earned sleep.

          It’s punctuated by intermittent pressure on his arm, hard pokes and shakes. He’s about to spell the obstruction into a writhing, screaming ball of flames when he hears, “Cas, I broke your cauldron!”

          Cas lurches into an upright position, forehead knocking into a hard, fleshy surface.

          “Ow!”

          His vision is still hazy and half-lidded, but he makes out Dean rubbing his temple and wincing.

          “You broke my cauldron? My state-of-the-art, double-walled, Swiss manufactured cauldron? Do you know how many enchantments I placed on that cauldron?” Cas demands, although his words lack the preferred punch in their garbled state. “I explicitly told you not to go in there alone, and now I’ll have to use Grace to put in an order, and I hate using Grace for outgoing supply runs because she can be flagged and traced back-why does my back hurt?”

          He blinks Dean into focus. The other man is crouching by Castiel’s feet, looking equal measures amused and confused. “Probably because you slept on the floor, genius. More on that in a sec- what do you mean, she can be traced? Why would someone trace Grace?”

          “Just ‘cause,” Cas replies brilliantly. It’s too early in the morning for his filter to kick into gear.

          “Right. Typical. Anyway, you’ll be happy to know your fancy schmancy Swiss cauldron is fine, still bubbling away. You were just sleeping like the dead, and it was freaking me out. I thought some good old materialism might rouse you.”

          “I’m not materialistic.”

          “Cas, a single tile in your apartment costs more than everything I’ve ever owned. Collectively.”

          That pulls a frown from him, because why on earth wouldn’t someone like Dean be showered with the all the jewels and trivial joys this world had to offer?

          The elixir clearly hasn’t been flushed from his system, opening Cas to errors in judgement he’d rather avoid. Especially with Dean peering at him with that half-smile, smelling like spring and apples and cinnamon. It turns to concern the longer Cas stares.

          “Dean, if you would,” Cas prompts, nudging Dean back with his foot. Dean fumbles and falls the short distance to the floor, an extremely put-out expression on his face upon landing. Cas snickers, and unravels a strand of magic to levitate his weighted-down body three feet into the air. “If you don’t mind, I’ll be continuing my nap on my mattress, which was personally crafted by a Gifted woman in France by the name of Marjorie Phillipe, atop my five-thousand thread count Egyptian weaveweb sheets, on fluffy pillows.”

          “Just fluffy?” Dean calls after Cas’s floating form.

          “I _do_ have a budget, you know.”

          Dean laughs, with a trace of what Castiel’s addled mind thinks is affection. “Snobby fucker.”

          Thankfully, his bedroom door is open, protecting his skull from an unfortunate knock. He lands in bed, settling gently over the covers, and is unconscious before his head hits the fluffy retail pillow.

 

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          Dean follows Cas into his room, checking that he hasn’t levitated straight through a window. Thankfully, the odd Magi is out cold in his enormous bed. His hair is sticking up in every direction, a tangled mess of dark strands obscuring his face. Dean’s hand twitches at his side, temptation to smooth the hair off Cas’s forehead strong.

          To speak nothing of the desire to crawl under the blankets and plaster himself against the other man’s lean form, bowing his body over Castiel’s. As if Cas needs anyone’s protection.

          Feeling like a class A creep, he quickly averts his gaze. He’s never been in this room before, for obvious reasons. It’s trademark Cas, from the textbooks littering the perimeter of the bed, to the spell books and herb jars lining the wall-to-wall shelf. Like the rest of the house, there are no photos or personal affects. Nothing to speak of who Cas is outside of what Cas _does_. Dean’s starting to worry that Cas hasn’t made the distinction.

          Something moves on the ceiling, sending his power curling toward his rings. But when he sees the disturbance, awe replaces alarm.

          Stars, actual space stars, twinkle lazily on Castiel’s ceiling. The movement was a comet, disintegrating as it shot across the artificial atmosphere. Or is it artificial? All of what Dean knows about stars is within the Wars version, but this view has to be what people see when they go to the Velvet Observatory, a museum funded by the Council, created by a team of twelve Magi and three Gifted, to bring space as close to Earth as magically possible. It’s the first of its kind to be open to Mortals. People come from all over the world to enter the oval structure and stand amongst the stars.

          And here’s Cas, in no small part replicating it in his bedroom.

          Je- _sus_.

          Dean leaves, shutting the door gently behind him. He doesn’t trust himself not to poke around, try to find answers to his questions while the Magi sleeps.

 First things first, he checks on Sam. His medical skills don’t extend further than sticking a finger under Sam’s nose and checking his pulse. Once he’s sure the little snot is okay, the daunting task of filling his day looms large.

          Other than defrosting a pound of ground beef, he’s got nothing. Nada. Most of the books on Cas’ shelf are nonfiction texts or medical journals, and Dean’s ass is gonna start sprouting sores from lounging around a couch and watching holographics.

          He could garden, but he’d need more tools than the meager three Cas boasts.

          Maybe he should crack open one of the psychology texts and get to the bottom of why he wants to bone Sammy’s doctor.  

          Say what you will about Dean, he’s no fool. The fact of the matter is, in the right mood, he digs dudes. When he was younger, he comforted himself with the thought that it was circumstantial. Who wouldn’t get a little hot under the collar after a particularly messy job? Near death experience, blood, sweat-that kind of adrenaline craved a hard body beneath him, behind him, and Dean knew it for what it was.

          The years went on, and when he never acted on it, it became easier to put his urges on the backburner where they could flare but not burn. It certainly helped that losing himself in women was no hardship.

          But the feelings that’ve been simmering merrily in the background have been bubbling lately, threatening to boil over.

          Dean’s not gonna bother denying that Cas is hot. Objectively speaking, the guy is smoking, with his tousled sex-hair and full lips that need moisture like the peonies needed air. And on the rare occasions when Cas isn’t playing the part of sentient robot, his hidden smiles make Dean want to spend an exorbitant amount of money buying a camera, specially made to preserve things as gorgeous as that smile.

          When he’d found him this morning, curled up on the carpet in the hallway and shivering on the floor, panic had ripped across Dean so viciously it stole the air right from his lungs. It was only after ascertaining that Cas was asleep, albeit too deeply, that Dean found he could breathe again. The urge to protect Cas is strong, much too strong. He’s only ever felt that way about his crew and Sam.

          But Dean being self-aware enough to know he _can_ crave men doesn’t equate to him actually liking a guy. He’s never even flirted with a guy, for Christssakes. The first time he wants to do more than grab a beer with a dude can’t- absolutely _cannot_ \- be with a Magi X. With a guy holding Sam’s life in his slender, long, lickable fingers.  

          His phone rings, shattering the daydream Dean is unhappily skipping toward.

          A glimpse of the caller ID has Dean grinning from ear-to-ear. He taps the key that keeps Benny from doing a Crowley and popping up in Castiel’s living room, grateful that like him, Benny isn’t a snob about doing things the Mortal way every now and then.

          “Bar for the Sad and Horny.”

          “Figures a booby bar is where you sorry ass would disappear to,” Benny admonishes. “Where you been, brother? We’ve got Crowley on a rampage and every Slayer west of the Mississippi working overtime.”

          “It’s only been eight days. Can’t a guy take a vacation?”

          “Not when that guy is you, and you’re a workaholic who lets the rest of us have a personal life.”

          Dean would resent the implication that he’s got no life outside work if it weren’t so true. Before Sam fell into his car, Dean was calculating how long it would take to wipe the ooze off his clothes and head to a bar. “What kind of gigs you lot been working?”

          He paces the length of the house twice while Benny talks. They’ve been friends and colleagues since Dean got into the business at fifteen, and he’s had occasion to trust Benny with his life.

          And since the opposite is also true, he’s aghast when he hears what Benny’s been dealing with during his absence. “Five L3 Ravines? Five in eight days?” Benny-hell, their whole motley crew- should be worm food. You’d get one of those vicious fuckers once every three months, if that.

          “We lose anyone?” Dean forces the question through clenched teeth. If someone died while Dean sat here, twiddling his thumbs…

          “Nah, some nasty bruises and Victor’s leg is busted, but we’re good. Takes more than a few soul-sellers to take us down.”

          Relief eases the bowling ball in the pit of his stomach. “A bouncy spring breeze could take you down.”

          “Dean. You’re tiring me out with all these circles, brother. Where are you?”

 Pinching the bridge of his nose, Dean stares blankly through the bay window and quickly runs through his gauntlet of excuses. None of them would stick with Benny. The Southern ass knows Dean better than almost anyone on the planet.  

          He settles on the least appealing option: the truth.

          “Sam got into an accident. I’m taking care of him.”

          “Your brother Sam? Thought he was smoking cigars with Magi politicians. What kind of accident?”

          “I can’t go into detail. I’ll be back in a few days. Any longer than that and Crowley’ll be shitting his britches.”

          Benny hums, dissatisfied with Dean’s explanation, but knowing better than to push. “Alright. Can you at least come out for a beer? We’re heading to the Roadhouse tonight to celebrate keeping our heads from being severed, swallowed, or sawed.”

          “A worthy cause,” Dean says. The Roadhouse is his favorite dive bar, burgers greased to perfection, and the company isn’t half bad either. The owner, Ellen, had kept him fed when he’d moved out at sixteen, determined to free himself from under his mother’s thumb. As a Mortal, she’d tried to convince him to wait until eighteen, but Magi adult law is different. At sixteen, Dean was mature enough to know the path Mary Winchester traveled wasn’t one he could tolerate. The same couldn’t be said for his brother.

 The Roadhouse is midway between his apartment and Castiel’s house, a forty-minute drive that’s about forty minutes too long.

          The invitation is tempting, but, “I just can’t, man. Can’t risk leaving Sam alone. Raincheck?”

          They hang up after Dean promises to keep Benny updates on Sam’s condition.

          His brother is peaceful in his impromptu hospital bed. Pale and skinnier than Dean would prefer, but peaceful. The regen spell, also known as the Sleeping Beauty Balm (which Dean plans to mock Sam with until his lungs collapse or he dies), keeps Sam from developing sores, clears his bowels, and fixes any superficial injuries. Cas does the nitty-gritty stuff, chanting over Sam in the morning and pouring a violet liquid down his throat after dinner.

          In essence, Dean himself is useless. He could vanish and the only thing that would suffer at his absence is the ground beef defrosting in the fridge.

          This is a huge part of the reason Dean can’t let himself feel anything more for the Magi X. Dean isn’t some wilting flower who needs rescuing, and he hates being indebted to anyone. He should’ve gone to the hospital when Cas instructed. Maybe then he wouldn’t feel like some kind of eighteenth-century kept woman.

          Frustrated, partly because he knows he’s being unreasonable and just doesn’t care, Dean changes into makeshift workout clothes that have the lingering smell of sweat from his last fight with Cas.

          He likes Cas’s gym. It isn’t flashy, and its exactly what Dean needs to unleash some of this pent-up aggression.

          Sam might be comatose, Dean may be mooching off a philanthropic aberration of nature, and he may have felt things staring at said abberation’s mouth last night, but at least Dean can punch things and call it ‘therapeutic’.

          He’s not sure how long he pummels the punching bag. The pattern is mechanical: punch, withdraw, steady, swing. His fingers are sore beneath the weight of the boxing gloves, and sweat is cooling on his chest, but he’s barely made a dent in his irrational frustration. He misses slaying, misses the cathartic quality of decimating evil with his bare hands, and what does that say about Dean?

          “Loosen your hips.”

          A girlish shriek is swallowed to the back of his throat in the nick of the time. Shoulder propped against the doorframe, watching him with his unique combination of intrigue and calculation, is Cas. His hair is mussed to high hell, and if Dean wasn’t certain Cas spent the last few hours asleep, he’d think the dude just got laid.

          “Did I wake you up? Sorry, I could have sworn I shut the door.”

          Cas straightens, and its only then that Dean notices that he’s dressed in loose sweats and a tee, an outfit to match his. “You didn’t wake me up. Focus. You need to loosen your hips when you swing forward, turn your waist with your elbow.”

          “O-kay,” Dean mutters, because he’s not sure where he signed up for advice, but Dean swings his right hip in time to his right fist.

          He almost says ‘cha-cha’, but restrains himself.

          Strong hands settle on his waist, and Cas’s low voice is close enough to raise the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck. Dean freezes. “Tighten your core and try again.”

          “Cas-” Dean hates the way his traitorous voice breaks.

          “I don’t have all day. Show me.” He’s efficient, unaffected by the proximity. Bastard is working up Dean’s temper and his temperature in one fell swoop.

          Dean raises his arm and punches the canvas, tightening his core at the last instant. Cas’s hands feel like brands, heating Dean to the marrow. When Dean’s hip moves with his hit, Cas’s hand slips a little west, grazing just under Dean’s stomach.

          It’s past dangerous territory and straight to DEFCON 5, but Dean doesn’t get the chance to pull away before Cas is gone, rounding the mat to stand opposite Dean.

          Cas bats his hand, and the punching bag disappears and rematerializes in the back corner of the room. Dean blinks. “What the hell? I was using that.”

          “You prefer to utilize your physical strength instead of your magic,” Cas states, ignoring Dean’s irritation. “I’ll hazard a guess and say that your magic itself is weak, formidable only in times of great duress.”

          “What’s it to you?” Dean snaps. He came here to work out his annoyance, not have it compounded. “Unlike some people, I don’t rely on my magic for every little thing.”

          There’s no sign that the barb found its target. Cas remains neutral, analyzing Dean with unnerving focus.

          Somehow, they end up circling each other in the spacious room. “Cas, not for nothing, but the last person looked at me like that, I got laid,” Dean says, upper lip furling.

          Cas tips his head back and laughs once. A rich, luscious sound. “Oh, Dean.”

          Then his head inclines to the side, his smile turns menacing, and a force equal to ten wrecking balls collides with Dean, hurling him into the stack of weights.

          If Dean didn’t bring his elbows up at the last second, there’d be a dumbbell-shaped crater in his skull. As it is, he narrowly avoids a concussion, taking most of the collision below the neck. When he stumbles to his feet, bruises throbbing along his right side, he’s _pissed._

“What the FUCK, Cas?” Dean bellows.

          There isn’t a shred of remorse in Cas’s voice when he says, “You could have blocked that. Your reflexes are too slow.”

          “Fight me with your fists and we’ll see who’s slow,” Dean growls, striding across the matted floor. But he’s not halfway across before he’s on his back, struggling under a crushing weight. He gasps, grappling at the invisible boulder, but if anything, it only settles deeper, slithering along Dean’s body until he’s anchored from ankle to neck.

          His lungs stutter. He writhers, cursing and pushing, but its like aerial quicksand.

          “Use your magic, Dean,” Cas says calmly above him.

          “’m gonna k-kill you,” Dean spits out. The pressure grows, and Dean’s only somewhat certain Cas isn’t going to let him suffocate to prove a point. Somewhat certain, because he’s a crazy bastard.

          For no discernable reason, as he draws a thin breath through his compromised esophagus, Dean thinks back to when he’d hot-wire cars to impress girls at school.

He didn’t have to, since he was a Magi and Mom’s position meant he was well-respected in the community and a hot commodity, but he didn’t want to be Mary Winchester’s golden boy, lapping at the font of achievements he’d already decided were bogus. No, the role of golden child went to Sam, and Dean gladly became the wild card, taking girls like Tessa Turner around town in Baby and showing up a week later, leaves in his hair and drunker than when he left. He was- _is-_ a chaotic mess, cycling from one disaster to the next.

          But the moment when Dean would press two wires together, angle, searching for that _spark,_ the electric pop that would bring the car and the night to life? Breath suspended, back straining from the awkward position, a girl hopping impatiently outside? For a while, Dean’s life wouldn’t be about destruction or hate or regret.

Dean could create.

          Dean’s magic sparks, igniting Dean from the inside out. He goes limp under the onslaught of weight, muscles cording tight.  He hasn’t tapped into his much of his power in a long time, and his body doesn’t know how to handle it.

          “If you’re just going to give up, this is pointless.” Cas must be mistaking Dean’s stillness for surrender. The urge to get up simply to wring Castiel’s neck gives the electricity pumping through his veins an outlet.

          The weight loosens from his chest first, and he inhales hoarsely, ballooning with sweet oxygen. His legs are next, followed by his arms, and then he’s on his feet, fist colliding with a satisfyingly fleshy smack against Cas’s cheek.

          Cas stumbles back, catching himself from falling in the nick of time. He wipes the back of his hand along his chin, coming away with a streak of red. The corner of his mouth is split and bloody. Dean refuses to be guilty.  

          “You nearly crushed me to death, you asshole!” Dean shouts. “What’s wrong with you?”

          The macabre sight of Cas smiling, consequently tugging the seams of his cut further apart, is freaky as all get out. “Plenty. But that’s neither here nor there. You used your magic, and I must say,” Cas states, tilting his head, gaze going faraway for the length of a heartbeat, “You don’t give yourself enough credit. Your magic is...quite delectable.”

          Is Cas gauging Dean’s magic? He can’t be; only Gifted like Charlie can. But God knows what a Magi with an X power range can do. The possibilities are limitless and terrifying.

          It’s a reality check. Cas might like him-and even that’s a toss-up- but Dean’s not gonna piss off someone who could potentially kill him with a well-timed burp.

          “Cas-”

          Two glowing orange orbs of fire appear over Castiel’s open palms.

          Dean throws himself against the wall, realizing too late that cornering himself might not be the best tactic. “Jesus, Cas!”

          “Defend yourself,” is Cas’s only direction, just as he hurls the first fireball at Dean.

          Dean’s on the floor in an instant. The fire meets the wall and dies, not a single mark marring the paint.

          He bounds upright and tries to placate the fire-wielding psychopath across from him. “We can work on my magic later, okay? Just stop. Unless you’re going for flambé a la Dean, this ain’t getting us nowhere.”

          “Flambé,” Cas chuckles, bouncing the remaining fireball from hand-to-hand. “That’s funny.”

          This time, the fire catches Dean’s shirt. “Shit!” Dean rips the quickly-disintegrating tee off, stomping the flames out with his shoe. “I liked that shirt!”

          Another horrifying thought occurs to Dean. “You could have fried off my nipples!”

          “Wouldn’t that be a shame?” Cas purrs, completely unperturbed by Dean’s anger or the blackened hole in his floor mat. Two new fireballs form in his hand, flames licking stripes of blue and purple and coalescing tightly. “Guess you’ll have to stop me.”

          This is it. The fucker’s gonna burn Dean to a crisp, nipples and all, and he’ll have brought Sam into the den of a psychotic Magi X with a fire fetish.

          Desperate, Dean searches for anything that’ll come in handy, but its all too far away or requires him moving closer to Cas. Unless…Dean points, clarifies his intention, goes through the mental checklist his instructors drilled into him.

          A thrilling pulse of his magic precedes the rattle from the corner of the gym.

          The fireball launches toward Dean, a crackling comet soaring through the air. Luckily, Dean’s education wasn’t utterly useless, because the fire meets the business end of Dean’s bat as it sails through the air, neatly splitting the fireball in half as it lands in Dean’s open hand.

          “Yeah, son!” Dean hollers triumphantly. He flips the bat in the air, catching the handle and spinning it like a baton. “Come at me.”

          He’s expecting Cas to be irritated. After all, the whole point is for Dean to use his magic to ward off the attacks. Having his rules circumvented should piss him off.

          Instead, Cas fucks Dean’s predictions yet again and guffaws, a gut-deep sound of mirth. The fireball twirls around his raised index finger like a basketball. “You are full of surprises, aren’t you, little Slayer?”

          He throws the ball, but Dean’s ready, and bats it into empty sparks immediately. Cas ups the ante, throwing fireball after fireball at breakneck speed. They circle the gym, Dean’s bat a blur. His whole body aches. Sweat drips into his eyes, but he can’t blink the blurriness away or risk melting off a substantial chunk of his flesh.

          Dean’s energy is waning. He can’t keep this up much longer. His biceps scream for a respite, and the core muscles Cas mentioned have never ached this much in his life. Odds are he’s going to slip soon, and he doesn’t know how far Cas is willing to take this.

          Making a quick prayer for Castiel’s reflexes, Dean slams the bat through the next fireball and releases the handle. The bat whirls through the air, head over handle, flying straight for Cas.

          But the bat never makes contact. Lightning-fast, Cas catches the bat, hand closing around the thickest of the metal and keeping it from splitting his face in two. Dean’s shoulders loosen; that maneuver could’ve caused real damage. Quid pro quo, he supposes.

          A gray blob hits the mat at Cas’s feet, burning straight through the abused canvas. Thick, viscous gray liquid rains onto the floor.

          The bat is melting in Cas’s grip, caving in on itself under what could only be tremendous heat. Cas’s eyes bore into him, fire and ice battling in his glowing gaze. Glistening gray liquid splashed over Castiel’s hand and the crater smoking at his feet are the only evidence that the bat ever existed.

          Only a Dynamist should be capable of reaching an internal temperature high enough to dissolve metal.

          Shit. Shit! Cas _melted the fucking bat!_

          Cas wipes his hand on his pants, and grimaces when the sticky substance smears and clings.

          It’s that grimace that weakens Dean’s knees with relief. That grimace belongs to the Cas that marvels at boxed macaroni and can’t communicate in anything but grunts before his morning tea.  

          However temporarily, the other Castiel, the Castiel that melts solid metal bats and could kill Dean on a whim, are nowhere to be found.  

          Suddenly, Cas sways. His skin is alarmingly pale, his breath coming in short pants. Dean doesn’t think before he’s grabbing Castiel’s elbow, hauling him upright.

          “Cas? You with me?”

          “Too much,” he murmurs. “Too fast.”

          He _does_ have a limit, then. And apparently the stubborn jackass blew straight past it.

          “I’ve got you. C’mon, walk with me,” Dean prompts. He slips an arm around Castiel’s narrow waist, inviting Cas to put his arm around Dean’s shoulders. After a brief pause, he does.

          Together, they limp into the living room, smelling of ash and burned rubber, bloody and bruised. Dean settles Cas on the armchair he favors and flops onto the couch.

          “Thank you,” Cas says quietly.

          “Yup.”

          The silence is charged. Two routes lay ahead: one where Dean pretends Cas didn’t nearly kill him a dozen times over and scare him shitless in the process, and another where they discuss the events that transpired like functioning adults.

          “Good workout,” Dean says, because the mature Winchester is currently laid-up a dozen feet away. Regardless of the questionable method, Cas did eradicate the aggression and restlessness that’s been broiling underneath Dean’s skin for the last few days. And no one fared worse than a few bruises.

          That reminds Dean. Ignoring the ample protestations of his body, he drags himself over to the armchair. Cas is staring blankly at the floor, and he doesn’t react to Dean.

          Placing a finger under Castiel’s chin, Dean coaxes his face up. He’s not prepared for what he sees.

          Cas looks utterly _wrecked_. He’s still too pale, and his eyes are red enough to worry Dean that a vessel might’ve burst. But its not his physical appearance that sets Dean on his heels. Despair is etched into every line of his face, a language of anguish and pain that’s existed since long before Dean knocked on his door.

          It guts him. Stoic, controlled, careful Cas bears a burden heavier than Dean can imagine. And up until recently, Dean thought he was the go-to guy for carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders.

          He realizes he’s unabashedly staring and clears his throat. He drops Castiel’s chin and gestures. “You’re, uh, your lip. Let me fix it for you.”

          Surprise registers in Cas’s strained features. “Fix it?”

          “Yeah, it won’t take a minute.” Dean reluctantly releases Cas and limps to the kitchen, wetting a bright yellow hand towel under warm water for a few seconds. He snags two water bottles and returns to find Cas watching him with abject confusion.

          It only intensifies when Dean waves the water at him. Cas takes too long, so Dean drops it on his lap. Again turning a deaf ear to the formal complaints his spine is currently filing, Dean takes Cas’s elbow and leads him to the couch, having determined there’s no way Dean can heal the lip and crouch at the same time. He doesn’t completely hate himself.  Not to mention, it would require a closeness to the Magi that Dean isn’t sure he can deal with right now.

          Not when his brain is instructing him to run far and run fast while his body demands something else entirely.

          Dean methodically wipes the blood on Castiel’s jaw and chin, using his thumb to rub at blood that’s set in his skin. Although options are limited, Dean wishes Cas would pick something else to stare unblinkingly at.

          Cas exhales, warm breath brushing Dean’s skin. The bloody towel balled and tossed into the kitchen-Dean’s pretty sure it hit the sink somewhere-Dean attends to Castiel’s split lip, grimacing anew at the sight. In the grand scheme, punching Cas doesn’t really compare to having fireballs hurled at him. Still, he hates the evidence that he hurt Cas, no matter if he deserved it or not.

          “Sorry. You were being a prick, but I shouldn’t a hit you so hard.” Dean crooks his index finger and tips Castiel’s chin up, getting the full scope of the damage.

          “You’re…sorry?” Cas repeats, a little louder.

          “Can’t cast the charm if you move, dude.” Dean tries to draw the suturing spell in hollow next to Cas’s mouth again only for the latter to twist out of Dean’s grip. “Cas!”

          “Why on earth should you be sorry?” Cas growls. “You did nothing wrong. I’m the one at fault. I could have seriously injured you, Dean!”

          “But you didn’t,” Dean reminds him. Of the many outcomes to their strange workout Dean foresaw, Cas spiraling into guilt was not among them. Part of him is satisfied, vindictively glad that Cas is punishing himself for behaving so dickishly, but the other part…the other part is stupid, and it doesn’t like seeing Cas beat himself up. “Just don’t do it again. Next time you wanna trigger my magical defenses, warn me first.”

          “That would defeat the purpose, and besides, your magical potency isn’t the issue. How you choose to use your powers is not for me to manipulate. You should be angry at me, not suturing the cut you inflicted in self-defense.”

          “Hold up. There is nothing wrong with my potency, alright? I’m potent as fuck. Don’t be spreading that crap around.”

          Cas rolls his eyes, temporarily derailed. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It happens to everyone at some point or another. With practice, you’ll be as potent as anyone else.”

          Unbelievable. “That’s like Han Solo giving me tips on my sword-fighting. Your opinion is invalid. Compared to you, the general population is magically flaccid.” He’s really starting to regret this extended metaphor.

          If Dean didn’t know any better, he might think Castiel is holding back a smile. It’s hard to tell, but blood is beading at his cut, and that’s as good a sign as any. “Would you prefer a mediocre sword-fighter teach you, then? I thought better of your ambition, Dean. If being intermittently effective is what suits you, then by all means.”

          Insulted though he is, Dean can’t help a small laugh. “You’re a real bastard, you know that?”

          Castiel’s humor extinguishes, a candle dying in the breeze. He casts his eyes down in shame. “I’ve been told.”

          Dean frowns. He’s been doing his best to respect Castiel’s privacy and keep the personal questions to a minimum, but its getting harder and harder the more he gets to know Cas. He likes the ornery asshole, and the steep declines in his mood bother Dean. Whoever had the fucking gumption to put that resigned misery on Castiel’s face can come meet the party end of Dean’s fist.

          He holds Castiel’s chin between his thumb and index finger, shooting a warning glance should he consider wiggling free again. “Hey, I'm allowed to call you a dick. Anyone else call you that and you let me know. Stay still."

          He draws the symbol against the smooth surface of Castiel’s cheek. Within seconds, his lip knits together, stitching and smoothing into its natural state of chapped pink. The impulse to run his thumb over Cas’s plush mouth just to check everything’s in tip-top shape isn’t one he’s gonna acknowledge.

          Dean’s still holding Cas’s chin. He quickly withdraws, clapping his hands once. “There we go. Good as new.”

         "Thank you." God help him, but Cas’s tongue slips out, licking over the newly healed area. His upper lip glistens, and suddenly Dean wants to chase Castiel’s tongue with his own, delve into that newly healed mouth.

          He knocks over a legal pad in his haste to stand up. Which of course puts Cas’s face level with Dean’s crotch, since Cas slouched a little to accommodate Dean, _and he needs to get the hell out of here._

“Gonna go. Shower. In the bath area. See ya.” Master of dialogue Dean, ladies and gentleman. He skirts the table and disappears down the hall faster than Wil E. Coyote chasing his damn bird.

          Goddammit, he’s back to square one.  


	8. Ventured Gain

Chapter Eight- Ventured Gain

 

          There are times when he forgets.

          They’re few and far between, naturally. Only sometimes, when he’s perusing a new shelf at Vulcan Vault, or reading an especially absorbing book.

They’re not often, but there are times when Castiel forgets he’s a monster.

          But today brought it all rearing to the forefront, and the worst part is Cas can’t localize what pushed him into it. One minute he’s waking up to find Dean pounding at the punching bag with grim focus, and the next he’s changing into workout pants and blasting Dean across the room.

          He’d felt queasy when Dean couldn’t protect himself against the simplest offensive spell. As talented as Dean may be with physical confrontation-Castiel is reasonably certain Dean could beat Castiel in combat- he won’t stand a chance against a magical opponent. And considering he faces Ravines for a living, creatures who wield the most potent, vile magic on earth?

          Fear took the reins from Castiel. The last time he feared for anything was in childhood, before experience made it clear that everything and everyone dies, and forming attachments is for the foolish and fanciful.

          But there’s no mistaking the attachment he’s forming with the Slayer, and it chills him to his core.

          While Dean’s in the shower, Castiel sequesters himself in his bedroom. He slides to the carpet, crossing his slightly sore legs Indian-style. In the last drawer of his dresser, Castiel extracts a mesh drawstring bag, palming its weight.

          Castiel loosens the strings and holds the bag upside down, shaking its contents on the floor.

          “ _Patenibus._ ”

          The enchanted dust motes falling from the bags change, unfurling and flattening into dozens of browned newspaper clippings. Posters, web printouts, the profiles various Magi and Gifted psychologists had written based on him-it’s all here, a taste of Castiel’s sordid past in every flavor.

            **DRUG ‘HALO’ CLAIMS THREE MORE YOUNG LIVES**

**CASTIEL KRUSHNIC REMAINS AT LARGE. REWARD OFFERED FOR ANY INFORMATION LEADING TO ARREST.**

**THE HALLOWED THREE SPOTTED AT INFAR DEMARCATION**

**SEVEN DEAD, THREE IN CRITICAL CONDITION AFTER DEADLY STANDOFF BETWEEN HALLOWED THREE AND KEEPERS.**

And the last clipping, printed from a police database in Kansas that Cas paid someone to hack two weeks after _she_ happened.

          _Claire Novak, female, fifteen-years-old. DOA. Cause of death: overdose on silane boranthium, street name ‘Halo’._

          They’d attached a grainy photo of Claire with the report. Despite the poor quality of the image, her sneering contempt is obvious, and Cas can swear there’s lightning is flashing from blue eyes that once vibrated with life.

          Until he saw them go empty and glassy in his arms.

          He doesn’t want to keep looking. He’s clawing open wounds he’s been carefully stitching together for years, holding them wide to bleed. But he needs to remember why someone like him could never have Dean. Someone like him doesn’t deserve the gruff kindness with which Dean healed his lip, or the flash of Dean’s anger on his behalf at the mention of his youth.

          Claire Novak should be alive, and Castiel should be dead in her place.

          The earlier papers used Castiel’s name before Meg and Balthazar upped his infamy, and together they made ‘the Hallowed Three’. Whoever chose the moniker meant it to be a play off the name of the drug Castiel founded, ironic in its blasphemy. ‘Hallowed’ is not what Castiel remembers his partnership with Meg and Balthazar being. There was nothing holy, nor righteous, in the havoc they wreaked.

          When Dean finds out the truth about Castiel-and he will, the encounter with his handler was proof of that- he’ll be disgusted. Revolted, to think he accepted help from a killer. To think that he diminished Castiel’s well-deserved suffering in any capacity.

          Castiel’s resolve brings an ache to his chest, but also a measure of peace. No more. He won’t give Dean more to regret when he inevitably comes to hate Castiel. Sam will awaken any day now, and in the meantime, Castiel will do what he’s always done best. What spawned the mess of destruction and pain encapsulated in the clippings scattered on the carpet.

          He’ll withdraw.

 

 

 

          After washing away the smell of burned canvas and liquefied metal, the physical discomfort of his condition wanes enough for Cas to attune to his stomach’s rumbling. He’s hungry, ravenous in fact, in a way he hasn’t been in ages.

          Changing into jeans and a long-sleeved blue shirt, Cas plods barefoot down the hall. A delicious aroma wafts from the kitchen, making his mouth water and his feet carry him faster.

          When he locates the source, he comes to a stumbling halt.

          Dean whistles cheerfully over the stove, tapping his foot to an invisible beat. He slides a burger patty onto a ceramic plate with an obscure logo for a Chicago deep-dish pizza place emblazoned across the surface. The other plate has a picture of a rubber duck with a smoking cigarette hanging from its beak, an image Dean had giggled at for so long in the aisle that Cas had no choice but to buy the absurd thing.

          “Took you long enough,” Dean gripes when he spots Cas, still loitering awkwardly at the end of the hall. “Cop a squat and tell me if this isn’t the best burger you’ve ever eaten.” He holds out Castiel’s plate and beams hopefully.

          That’s the first hit to Castiel’s infant resolution.

          Cas accepts the plate, sliding onto a stool. It’s disorienting, being on this side of the counter, since he’s usually the one ordering their meal from Grace while Dean waits. Dean, however, is completely in his element, alternating between flipping a sizzling burger and slicing tomatoes with laser efficiency. His hands move in clean cuts, index finger supporting the flat of the knife. Watching Dean expertly wielding a blade shouldn’t make Castiel shift in his seat, abnormally overheated, but Cas is having a banner day for profound discomfort.

          The burger is flawless. Juicy, flavorful, and better than anything Castiel could have ordered. Considering he’s had items delivered from the most exotic, coveted niches of the globe, that’s rather high praise.

          Dean turns off the stove and sits across from him when Castiel’s halfway finished with his burger. “Well?”

          “It’s delicious, Dean. More than lived up to its promise.”

          Grinning widely, Dean manages a demure shrug and says, “All in the seasoning.”

          They finish eating in silence. Castiel remains on edge, almost twitchy with the tension coiled tightly in the pit of his stomach. Uneasiness is madnatory to keeping his guard up, an act that’s become increasingly difficult the more time he spends around Dean. Lively, spirited, open Dean.

          When he’s finished, Dean claps his hands free of crumbs over the empty plate. His lips glisten with burger grease, and Castiel tightens his mental leash to a choking degree. Two years its been since the craving for human intimacy was this unbearable, and even then, fucking a Gifted barista in the bathroom of a seedy pub hadn’t come close to sating the need. The risk of being recognized kept him from repeating the impulsive indulgence, and anyway, it did nothing but sour Castiel’s mood afterwards.

          He trained his mind to steer clear of anything remotely sexual, and after some resistance, his body had followed. But Dean is unraveling years of building desire, throwing a match into a blazing inferno that Castiel can only _just_ reign in.

          So when Dean wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, Cas exhales with relief, and shuffles aside the impulse to clean Dean’s lips with his tongue.

          Control. He has it. He can exercise it.

          “Charlie’s coming by to watch Sam in twenty minutes,” Dean says casually, picking up their plate and taking them to the sink. History has taught Castiel that if he attempts to clean up, Dean may or may not aggressively brandish a knife at him.

          “Why?”

          “Oh, didn’t I mention it? I’m kidnapping you.”    

          Dean hums while he washes the dishes. For his part, Castiel is calm, fingers forming a steeple on the counter while he watches the muscles in Dean’s back shift beneath his T-shirt.

          “Is that so?” Cas asks the second Dean switches off the faucet.

          “Yep. Taking you to The Roadhouse, beers and frisky broads abound.” Dean wiggles his brows, perhaps intending to entice Castiel, but only succeeding in earning a frown. With a slogan like that, Castiel wouldn’t be amiss to think Dean frequents a bar much like the kind Castiel would utilize to scratch his proverbial itch. Is that what Dean’s planning? But if it’s a sexual conquest he’s after, why invite Castiel?

          “I am not an ideal wingman.”

          Dean chuckles, leaning his elbows on the counter and giving Castiel a smile that can only be described as indulgent. “That’s okay, bud. I tend to fly solo, and anyway, that’s not on the agenda for tonight.”

          So much for Castiel’s indifference. He quells his budding jealousy swiftly.

          “Much as I appreciate the offer, I’d prefer to stay home.”

          “Hence why I’m kidnapping you.”

          Castiel scrubs his knuckles over the bridge of his nose, as if pushing back a sneeze and not immense frustration. Frustration with himself, at his situation, at his inability to withdraw from this man despite having successfully withdrawn from the world at large.

          “Dean, there are reasons I live the way I do. I am not a hermit by nature,” Cas says at last. It’s the closest he’s tread toward his past with Dean.

          “I gathered. But its only a couple of my pals and a few beers, Cas. They’re good people, and I’ll be watching your back.”

          The second blow to Castiel’s resolution comes when Dean rubs the back of his neck and adds, “I’m tryin’ here, man. I know you’ve got your shit, I’ve got truckloads of my own, but I…outside of this weird doctor/patient, philanthropist/troublemaker dynamic, you’re the kind of guy I’d want to hang out with.”

          Hang out. Dean wants to ‘hang out’ with him? Castiel casts his mind back for the last time he had a normal, honest-to-God friendship and comes up empty. He’s not actually sure what that would entail. Considering a few hours prior he’d almost melted Dean’s skin from his bones, the offer is doubly astonishing. Dean is remarkably forgiving, and that worries Cas immensely.

          “You’d like to be…friends?” Castiel checks.

          Dean frowns. “Don’t make it weird.”

          “You started it. Stop calling me a doctor. I don’t fix people. I don’t save lives.”

          “Not directly, but where do you think those enchantments and potions you design go? Off to Narnia?”

          At the puzzled furrow of Castiel’s brow, Dean guffaws. “You have got to watch the Mortal classics, man. I don’t know how Charlie hasn’t lassoed you to a chair and forced you to.”

          Castiel purses his lips. “Because she’s afraid of me.”

          He gets up and rounds the counter, pouring himself a glass of water and draining it in two pulls. God, is he truly considering this? Leaving his house to some nondescript dive bar with people who may or may not recognize him?

 It’s not an easy feat nowadays, faking your own death.

The Keepers have technology and magic on their sides. It was only their desperation to declare to the general public that the head of the snake was cut off, officially disintegrating the Hallowed Three, that kept them from being as thorough as they should’ve been. Castiel has expended every possible resource to maintain his status as a dead man, whisked into ash and wind long ago.

          But here he stands, considering this asinine endeavor, all for the chance to be Dean Winchester’s friend.   

          To be fair, the likelihood of someone recognizing him are slim. They never did manage to capture a quality photo of Castiel to publicize, and only alley-crawlers or men and women of powerful criminal stature would know Castiel at a glance. He doubts players like Abbadon or Raphael will be frequenting a brewery composed of low-totem Magi, or worse, Mortals.

          The teetering legs of Castiel’s resolve are decimated when Dean heaves a disappointed sigh behind him. “It’s okay, Cas. You don’t have to come. You’ve got your shit, and I shouldn’t have pushed.”

          “I’ll come,” he snaps, then softens his tone. “It’s been much too long since I’ve had a drink at a bar.” He turns around, and the knot in his chest eases the slightest at the other man’s lopsided, elated grin.

          “Really?”

          Damn it all straight to the bowels of hell. “Really.”

          After checking that Sam’s vitals are still pumping strong, Cas is heading to his bedroom to undoubtedly glare at the unsatisfactory contents of his closet, when Dean stops him.

          “Charlie’s not afraid of you, by the way.”

          Castiel turns enough to catch Dean studiously drying the frying pan, hip cocked on the counter. He flips the rag over his shoulder and sets the pan aside.

          “She’s my friend,” Cas says cautiously. “She has no reason to be afraid of me. I don’t know why I said that.”

          There’s an old wisdom in the bitter twist of Dean’s mouth. “Because you’re smart enough to know that reason or not, some people fit a role. You’re the big, bad Magi X. She shouldn’t be afraid, you hope she isn’t, but you can’t help but wonder.”

          Castiel blinks. Right to the heart of the matter. He figured Charlie revealed his range to Dean early on, but since Dean never directly addressed it, Cas hadn’t felt the need to either. He tilts his head, scrutinizing the flannel-wrapped mystery in his kitchen. “Are you speaking from personal experience?”

          To his pleasant surprise, Dean doesn’t shrug off the question like he does most. “I like helping people and killing evil bastards as much as the next guy, but it ain’t all it’s cracked up to be reputation-wise. Sam, he’s not crazy about what I do.”

          They both glance over to the prone body in the living room. Dean lifts a deceptively uncaring shoulder, idly whipping the rag around his hand. “He fights the good fight above board. I’m not cracked up for that.”

          “Your occupation isn’t anything to be ashamed of, Dean.” Irritation at the hierarchical bullshit of their world ignites in Castiel. Coming from Dean’s brother, too? “You actively save lives and prevent tragedy. Anyone who takes issue should-they should-”

          “Whoa there,” Dean chuckles. “I appreciate the thought, and don’t get me wrong- I love my job. I’m just whining. I’ve got no complaints.” Just like that, Dean smoothly reroutes the track of their conversation, minimizing his problems with enough practiced ease that it only serves to inflame Castiel further. He wants to continue, dig further, get a list of names to sink his claws into, but he’ll have to find another way to get Dean to open up.

          Charlie arrives, and Cas explains how to keep alert for certain changes in Sam’s conditions, and how to contact him should they arise.

          “Bruh, I am not using some Old Realm blood rite spell to contact you. I’ll just call Dean on his phone like any normal person.”

          “But what if I need to assess Sam from my location?”

          She gestures at the flat glass square and says, “Projection function. Duh.”

          He leaves her clucking over his ‘grand-daddy dam’ against change. So what if he’s behind on Magical technology advances? The medical world is the only one he cares to dabble in. Although the projection function does explain how Dean’s handler appeared in Castiel’s living room.

          He flexes his hand, remembering the sensation of a racing pulse against his palm as he throttled the bearded man. The icy disconnect between his brain and his body, where all Castiel could see was a threat that needed to be neutralized _._

          He remembers Dean’s face, terrified but trying so valiantly to hide behind his sneer and his ire. No matter what he does, Cas scares the people he cares about. At boarding school, he had a lot of time to read up on his condition. While there was a disheartening dearth of information on expiration date foretelling, Cas found out about magical ranges and their defined limitations. Only three Magi X have existed, and each has lost himself to the magic-madness, digging their powers into the roots of the earth and causing massive upheaval before death dared claim them. No matter their initial light, they each perished as monsters. None of them, however, claimed to have a Gift. In this sense, Castiel remains singular.

          Shaking loose the melancholy thoughts, Cas picks dark jeans and a soft gray button-down. Temptation to slide his comfortable tan trench coat over his shoulders is nearly overpowering, but Castiel resists. The chance he’ll be recognized is miniscule, but he’s learned the hard way that its better to be safe than asphyxiating on a dirty concrete strip in the middle of nowhere. The coat was his trademark; it’ll stay.

          So he leaves the trench coat behind and slips in a black wool overcoat. A cursory glance at the mirror, a fruitless attempt to calm the rebellious wave of his hair, and Castiel calls it. He shoves his hands in the pockets and strides outside, bracing himself for a night of paranoia and jokes he won’t understand.

          Dean and Charlie are perched on the kitchen stools, talking animatedly about something that’s likely fictional. Charlie lets out a low whistle when she spots him. “Damn, Cas! You sure clean up nice.”

          He’s more interested in Dean’s reaction. Dean, who’s ears are turning their trademark red, and who is licking his lips a tad too much for Castiel to write off.

          Dean is flustered. By _him_.

Castiel tilts his head, a smirk playing on his lips. “Are you alright, Dean? You seem a little…flushed.”

          The other man is dressed in a dark green Henley and blue jeans with natural wear on the knees. Which makes Castiel wonder what Dean’s been doing on his knees.

          “Someone never cast the thermostat spell,” Dean returns snidely. “I overheat. Now chop, chop, Cinderella, your chariot awaits.”

          “Does that make you the fairy godmother or Prince Charming?”

          Charlie, who’d been watching them with an unnerving speculative focus, perks up. “Hey, look at who’s whipping out the Mortal references!”

          “I’m the guy who’s going to beat your ass if we don’t get going. C’mon.” Dean opens the door and gestures for Cas to pass with an unnecessary flourish.

          “I don’t believe Cinderella was into traditional BDSM,” Cas ponders, ignoring Dean to swerve one last time toward Sam. He runs his palm a few inches over the boy’s body, reassuring himself the regen spell is intact.

          He waits until he’s passing Dean on the threshold to catch the other man’s gaze and innocently murmur, “Her loss, if you ask me.”

          At Dean’s strangled inhale, Cas grins. Perhaps this night can be saved after all.

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          Somewhere between convincing Cas to abandon his igloo of isolation and advising Charlie to call him if there’s any change whatsoever in Sam’s condition, it slipped Dean’s mind that the Roadhouse is forty minutes away. Forty minutes, where he’ll be confined in a small space with Cas.

          It’s preposterous to be nervous. He’s essentially been quarantined with Cas in the house for over a week. There are rare moments when Cas smiles or cracks a joke that Dean thinks he’d have really liked to meet Cas in different conditions, when he didn’t feel indebted to the guy for saving his brother and housing his sorry ass. Maybe if he’d met him in a bar somewhere, he would’ve…

          Dean doesn’t know what he would have done. Nothing he should be dwelling on, anyway. And considering Cas doesn’t leave the house unless under great duress, it’s a moot point.

          “Wanna play twenty questions?” Dean blurts, then promptly cringes. But he won’t take it back if there’s a chance Cas will answer some of the question s percolating in Dean’s brain.

          He chances a glance at Cas. He’s leaning his head against the window, breath fogging the window while he watches the outside world whiz by. “Why?”

          “Why not?”

          Cas chuckles. It’s a bitter sound. “You’re under the mistaken impression that I’m a person worth knowing, Dean. Let me clear this grave misconception for you: I’m not.”

          Is he serious? Dean shakes his head, incredulous and saddened. But he’s been there before, and he knows better than to try to persuade Cas otherwise. Right now, anyway. “Humor me.”

          “Dean…”

          “We have another half an hour of driving, man. Unless you want to listen to my music.” Dean shrugs innocently, reaching for his stereo. His hand is slapped midair, and Dean retracts it triumphantly.

          “Your music gives me migraines,” Cas grumbles, which Dean finds oddly endearing. “Fine.

          _Victory_! Dean suppresses a fist-pump. “You first or me?”

          “Oh, this is reciprocal?” Cas asks. Dean arches a brow at his pleasantly surprised tone.

          “It ain’t an interrogation, Cas.”

          “In that case, I’d prefer to go first.”

          Dean prepares himself. Can’t have any regrets now. “Shoot.”

          “What’s your favorite smell?”

          Another curveball by Cas Truly. “Huh?”

          “Your favorite smell,” Cas elaborates patiently. “Freshly cut grass, coffee brewing in the morning, soap and detergent, etcetera.”

          “Uh…” Dean has to stop and think. It’s a good thing the highway is relatively empty, because his head is not behind the wheel right now. The first smell that comes to mind is the slightly burnt smell of chemicals, or the cinnamon scent of the tea Cas drinks. The soap and ash of Cas’s hair.

          Fuck.

          “Pie,” Dean says quickly. “Pie baking in the oven. You?”

          Cas’s answer is prompt. “Leather.

          “Leather? How come?” Dean flips through his catalog of the interior of Castiel’s house and can’t come up with an explanation. His couch is fabric and his jacket is wool.

          “Is that one of your questions?”

          Smartass. “No. Let’s see…so many options. Hard to pick just one.”

          At his side, Cas tenses. It’s miniscule, only a curl of his fingers into the meat of his thigh, but it’s there.

          Dean hums, because he’s a jackass, but puts Cas out of his misery. “What’s the weirdest thing a chick’s ever asked you to do in bed?”

          The atmosphere in the car shifts. Subtly enough that if Dean weren’t ultra-attuned to Cas, he would’ve missed it.

          “What is your definition of ‘weird’?” Is it his imagination, or has Castiel’s voice dropped an octave? Which, given how absurdly low it is already, should defy the laws of physics or molecules or some shit.

          “Uh, you know, anything kinky or freaky.” He’s already sorely regretting venturing into this uncharted and volatile territory.

          “That’s hardly illuminating,” Cas rumbles, but he plows on before Dean can tell him he’s not a human Kama Sutra, “but are these exploits limited to my experiences with women?”

          The record needle of Dean’s brain scratches, effectively short-circuiting his piddly handful of neurons in an explosion of sparks and curses.

          Did Cas just…

          _Does Cas_ …

          Shit in a hammock. Honey dog-damn. He needs to say something. His noises aren’t working. How do words do the sentence thing? What language does he speak? _How is he still driving straight?_

          “Uh, what?” Dean says brilliantly.

          The fucker has the gall to sound richly amused. “I said, is it alright if I include experiences that weren’t with women?”

          Ungluing his tongue from the roof of his mouth is an ordeal, but Dean does it. “Yeah, man, go for it.” He laughs a tad too loud and then considers driving into the highway divider. But that would injure Baby, so he stays in his lane and tries to recall an amnesia enchantment that can erase this conversation from his memory later. Laurel dust should do the job, right?

          “In my youth, I was a bit…sexually adventurous. There’s not much I haven’t done. Or had done to me.” Here Cas pauses thoughtfully, and Dean donkey-kicks his wayward imagination to the road. “I suppose a memorable exploit was when I was…twenty? Twenty-one? My partners were a nimble young man who liked being held immobile, and a woman with unbeatable stamina and a penchant for inflicting pain. I chained the man to the wall, handcuffed the woman to his ankle, and while she prepared him to take me, I slid beneath her body and took care of her own needs. I believe there were a few others present as well, but they were not players in our pleasure.”

          _Jesus H. Christ._ Nothing Dean’s vocal chords can manufacture will come out coherent, so he settles for a strained, “Hmm.”

          Cas shifts in his seat. To Dean’s surprise, he feels a strand of Cas’s magic slip free, pulled tight with tension. “I apologize. I didn’t intend to make you uncomfortable.”

          “Didn’t you?” Dean returns immediately, surprising himself. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think Cas was trying to goad him with that story. Into what, Dean hasn’t a clue.

          He continues before Cas can reply. This conversation needs to be steered back onto safe, tractable ground. God knows the damage to Dean’s fantasies has already been done. “Don’t sweat it. I mean, not to brag, but I’m used to being the one with the wild stories. I wouldn’t have pegged you as such a kinky bastard, Cas.”

          “What about you? What’s the ‘weirdest’ activity you’ve performed in bed?”

          “Sleep,” Dean jokes. What the hell can he say that’ll top Cas’s medieval threesome story? And that wasn’t even the craziest, just the first one he remembered. “Uh, there was a girl, a Zorro mask, and some light slapping.”

          “Zorro?” Cas repeats, humor thick in his tone.

          “Hey, don’t judge! The guy’s a legend.”

          “I’m doing no such thing. Although, I am wondering who the recipient of the light slapping was.”

          Dean peers over at Cas. The Magi X has the back of his head propped against the window while he watches Dean with hooded eyes that are too shrewd, too knowing, too _much_. Swallowing hard, Dean takes the exit towards the Roadhouse and sends a prayer of thanks that traffic was clear. The faster he can escape this conversation, the better.

          “Gotta have some secrets,” Dean replies. Such as the fact that Dean liked it rough. Rough and dirty and debauched enough that it intimidated most of his partners.

          He parks in front of the Roadhouse, a moderately sized Western-style bar that’s outlived its glory days. The signage is faded, the bricks are crumbling, and the top hinge of the entrance squeaks with pressure, but Dean loves the place.

          Cas steps out of the car, studying the place with same intensity he pays everything. It must look like a rundown heap to Cas, who seems to have money coming out of the wazoo. Not that Cas is ever snobbish or patronizing with Dean, but this bar can’t be what someone like him is accustomed to. The drinks don’t have fancy names and the clientele are straight from a mother’s nightmare.

          “Fair warning,” Dean says, walking backwards towards the entrance. “Slayers can be…well, fucking degenerates, actually. I love my friends, they’re practically family, but their mamas shoulda washed their mouths with soap more often. I want you to be prepared.”

          Cas grips Dean’s elbow, moving him aside in time to avoid tripping over a discarded bottle. The touch sends a lightning flash of heat through Dean, but Cas takes his hand away before Dean can do something stupid, like lean into the touch. “I won’t judge your friends for being uncouth, Dean. My goal tonight is to be a fly on the wall, nothing more.”

          Dean frowns. That’s not what tonight is about, not for him. For whatever misguided reason, he wants Cas to get along with his friends. He wants to find out what kind of drunk Cas is, wants the guy to let go of his steely restraint for a night. But he should’ve figured it wouldn’t be as easy as that to unspool Castiel’s ironclad control. “I guess.”

          He doesn’t notice they’ve stopped until Cas tugs Dean to his side, putting them shoulder-to-shoulder. The warmth of the other Magi radiates through Dean.

          “Shall we?” Cas motions towards the wood paneled door.

          Nerves assail Dean. What if the guys are douches to Cas? It’s perfectly plausible, since they’re generally assholes.

          “I can hear you thinking,” Cas says. His lips curl in a facsimile of a smile, self-deprecating and heavy. “Don’t worry about me, Dean. I can more than handle myself.”

         Resolve straightens Castiel's shoulders, a harsh steel Dean's only seen on Slayers at the helm of a battle. Without waiting on Dean, Cas pushes open the door. The hinge squeaks, jolting Dean from his stupor.

          Is Cas-yep, he’s walking right on in, okay, here they go. He’s on Cas’s heels in a nanosecond, leaving his last prayer for the night drifting upwards, dissipating among the stars.  


	9. Reunion

A change comes over Castiel between one step and the next.

          Confidence replaces apathy, arrogance wipes clean modesty. It’s a skin he hasn’t worn in half a decade, and it doesn’t fit as well over the new facets and ridges of his personality. 

          He slides his hands into the pockets of the black coat, surveying the scene lazily. Calling this dump with a liquor license a dive bar might be a stretch, but since Dean seems to favor it, so Castiel will have to make do.

          The patrons are comprised of loud, burly men sloshing beer over the pool table, or consuming grease and carbohydrates with impressive speed in the booths. The felt on the pool table is worn nearly clean of color and friction, the vinyl on the seats is cracked, puffs of white visible through the segments, and Cas would wager the table Dean is currently making a beeline towards is rickety.

          Cas tilts his head, openly admiring Dean’s ass in his jeans. Muscle encased in a plump roundness he wants to sink his teeth-among others things-deep into.

          Occupied with greeting his friends, Dean doesn’t notice when Castiel wanders to the bar. Etiquette calls for him to introduce himself to Dean’s friends, perhaps buy them a round of drinks to allay his encroaching presence in the group. Yes, that’s what he’ll do. Drinks first, socializing second.

The bartender, a young blonde woman with a flirty smile, wipes down the part of the counter Castiel’s hovering uncertainly by. “It’s wrong what you’re doing, you know. A face like that wasn’t made to look so moody. What’s on your mind, handsome?”

Castiel’s brow hitches. In no rush, he admires the girl’s soft features and lithe shape. Her expiration date doesn’t faze him, and he even finds comfort in the bold numbers stamped on her soul. It’s familiar. It’s Castiel’s normal.

          While Castiel prefers men, he’s enjoyed women more than his fair share of women before.

          “Working up the nerve to approach the beautiful bartender. You think she’s interested?”

          She bites the corner of her lip, provocative in her naked innocence. “She could be convinced.”

          Simple. Routine. Like putting on his favorite trench coat. Castiel leans forward, an invitation on the tip of his tongue.

          A heavy hand anchors itself onto Castiel’s shoulder, startling him back. “There you are, man. I thought you nicked my keys and bounced.”

          “You two…know each other?” the bartender asks, not sounding especially happy about the idea.

          “’Course. Cas and I are buds. You bothering my buddy, Joanna Beth? I’ll call your Mama down here to give you a lesson on flirting with the paying masses,” Dean threats. Joanna treats Dean to a one-fingered salute. They’re bickering is akin to that of siblings, and throughout it, Dean’s hand never loses its grip on Castiel.

          He shouldn’t find that as gratifying as he does. Shouldn’t get a thrill from the thought that Dean is staking a claim to him.

          “Don’t be a stranger…Cas, is it?” Jo winks, and the grip on Castiel’s shoulder tightens. “I’ll have Ash over with another round for the table.”

          Castiel smirks, infusing enough suggestion into it that Jo giggles, fumbling to catch the towel she nearly elbows off the counter. She goes off to tend the other side of the bar, shooting Cas a lingering glance over her shoulder.

          The hold Dean has on his shoulder turns bruising before vanishing entirely. “What the fuck, man?”

          “What?” Cas returns, hackles rising.

          “Jo’s like my little sister. And she’s way too young for you.”

          “I believe it’s up to her to decide.” There’s no reason why Cas should be up in arms about this. Jo _is_ a tad too young for him, not to mention past the bolster and swagger, there’s a youthful naivete that doesn’t belong anywhere near Castiel. Depraved as he tends to be in the bedroom, little Jo would break in his hands.

          But it rubs him the wrong way that Dean thinks he has a right to interject his opinion.

          Dean exhales slowly through his nose, the fight leaking out of him. “Look, let’s forget it. My friends want to meet you. I told them you and I used to be neighbors and that you’re a medmage.”

          “You didn’t give them my name, did you?” Cas demands, tensing. It’s not Dean’s fault; it completely slipped Castiel’s mind on the drive over to warn Dean what is and isn’t appropriate to divulge.

          “Just said your name was Cas. Is that okay?” Dean bites his lips, worried, and Castiel relaxes.

          “It’s fine.” He gestures for Dean to precede him. “Lead the way.”

          There are three men and one woman seated around the table. They all watch Castiel’s approach with a range of curiosity and suspicion. Perhaps Dean’s cover story had not been accepted as easily as he presumed.

          “Guys, this is Cas. Cas, this is Benny.” Dean points at a burly, scruffy Magi nursing a beer. “Bela.” The Magi woman with the mischievous twinkle. “Victor.” A Black Gifted fellow with an arm thrown over Bela’s chair. “Gabe.”

          The last Magi is sucking on a lollipop and regarding Cas with a levity incongruence for a man with a candy-apple flavored sucker staining his tongue.

          He’s also…oddly familiar. Castiel can’t put his finger on it, but it unsettles him. Maybe he’s just losing his mind. It’s bound to happen eventually, why not start now?

          “A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Castiel says politely, accepting the chair Dean pushes toward him. The space is cramped, knees bumping under the table, and he’s pressed against Dean from arm to elbow. Although, the latter he doesn’t mind so much.

          “Gotta say, you’re not the type Dean usually bums around with,” Benny rumbles, swigging his beer.

          “You garbage heaps saying I can’t hang with quality folk?” Dean’s mock-outraged.

          “We’re saying they don’t want to hang with you,” Victor says.

“I’ve enjoyed Dean’s company,” Cas says. “I’m happy to ‘bum around’ with him.”

          Dean’s head swings toward Cas, but he’s studying the faded coaster intently. The table erupts into whistles and laughter, which Dean offsets with a series of ‘fuck-you’s’ and ‘I’m a hot commodity, assholes’. The conversation shifts away from Castiel’s association with Dean, although Benny still sends him speculative glances from time to time.

          Yet its not the burly Southern man making the hair on the back of Castiel’s neck stand on end. The lollipop guy-Gabe- never wavers his attention from Cas, even when he’s participating in the conversation. And unlike Benny, he’s not searching for answers to questions he doesn’t know to ask. Gabe stares at him like he knows everything there is to know and is dangling it in front of Castiel.

          His surroundings do little to distract him. He flinches whenever someone sets their drink down too hard at a nearby table. His leg hasn’t quit bounding since the moment they sat down, a nervous tick uncharacteristic of Cas.

          This evening’s saving grace comes in the form of Dean’s happiness. He’s easy around his friends; loose and carefree in a way he’s not around Castiel. The coiled tension of things left unsaid doesn’t stretch between them, and Castiel luxuriates in the deep timbre of Dean’s laughter.

          A thin fellow with a truly hideous mullet arrives bearing a tray of drinks. Everyone’s ordered beer except for Gabe, who sips on the straw of a fruity concoction with a silly name. The drink Ash places in front of Cas is a single-malt cocktail, which doesn’t seem like something Dean would order for him.

          “This is from a lady somewhere by the pool tables. I’m also supposed to do this,” Ash continues, bored. He circles his finger around the rim of Castiel’s glass and tapped the stem of the glass twice. A spark of fire lights over the glass, burning brightly for a second before dissolving into smoke. His tablemates applaud.

          “I saw that on the holo a few days ago, didn’t think people actually did it,” Viktor observes.

          “What a delight!” Bela claps her hands.

          Meanwhile, Castiel is silently watching the smoke settle into a perfect ring, floating on the unbroken surface of his drink without sullying itself with the murky depths below.

          A perfect halo.

          “A young woman by the pool table, you said?” Cas asks smoothly. At Ash’s nod, Cas slides the tip of his finger along the condensation beating along swell of his glass. “I’ll have to give my thanks in person.”   

          He stands, to the raucous cheers and wolf-whistles of his tablemates. Only Dean and Gabriel don’t partake, the former picking at the table with a tight, closed-off look. Gabe continues his eerie, silent watchfulness.

          All manner of possibilities occur to Castiel as he weaves around the drunk and disorderly toward the pool tables. This could be a coincidence. A bizarre, cruel one, but a coincidence nonetheless. Perhaps if he was anyone else, but Cas can’t believe fate would be so kind to him.

          Odds are he’s either going to kill or be killed tonight. If he survives, he’ll have to relocate again, scrub the memory of his existence from Kevin and Charlie’s minds. From Dean’s mind.

          Anger kindles in Castiel’s chest as he skims the pool tables for the culprit. He’s finally set roots, tentative as the flowers in his newly raked garden. Peace is too much to ask for, he knows that, but a measure of comfort? A home to call his own? A _single_ night out with a wonderful man without his own personal brand of disaster descending like a swarm of locusts?

          He finds her sitting behind the table closest to the window. She’s changed her appearance since he last saw her. Long gone are the loose, golden locks framing her heart-shaped face, replaced with uneven shoulder-length brown waves that look like they were hacked off by a teenager pitching a temper tantrum. She’s still curvy, soft in Castiel’s favorite places.

          Once upon a time, Meg looked like an angel. A deadly deception and a cruel irony. Now, for all intents and purposes, she’s a girl from the wrong side of the tracks. Dragged beneath the tide, washed-up and dulled.

          When she lifts her head and meets his eyes, she smiles wide and slow, like molasses in the summer heat. 

          Cas picks up a pool stick and rubs his thumb over the rounded end. “How did you find me?”

          “Is that any way to tell your best friend hello?” Meg says, pouting. She stands, the top of her head barely reaching Castiel’s chin, and crushes her body to his. His arms stay by his sides, but Meg is undeterred by his stiffness.

          Another set of arms close around Castiel from behind, a chin coming to rest on his shoulder. “Cassie. I can’t believe it’s you.”

          “Balthazar.” Of course. These two travel in pairs; where one is, the other is never far behind.

          They finally step back, releasing Castiel from confinement. Balthazar is the same; British, clean-shaven, and fond of shirts that dip too low for decency.

          “You changed your gloves,” Castiel observes inanely.

          Meg lifts the tight black gloves cinched at her wrist. “The elbow gloves went out of style a few years ago.”

          “We should take this outside,” Castiel says curtly.

          Balthazar chuckles. “Ah, how I’ve missed that grim face and sinful voice.”

          “Out. Side.”

          He pivots, making his way to the exit, much less gracious about moving people out of his path. Reluctantly, he glances toward Dean’s table and finds them still immersed in conversation, blocked from viewing Castiel’s personal hell thanks to curve of the bar’s counter. None of them notice him moving to the exit.

          Dean’s wiping his mouth with the back of his hand with the same pensive, prickly demeanor. There’s a collection of glass bottles on his side of the table.

          The duo follow him outside, to the narrow alley between the Roadhouse and a deserted liquor store. Dean shouldn’t be drinking so much. If Castiel is forced to disappear, he wants to know Dean will be safe on his own.

          Castiel hates this. He feels _seen_ , trapped, as if the night sky itself is spying on him, suffocating him from above. The chilly wind caresses his cheeks, ruffles his hair, closes in to carry Castiel’s words to peeping ears.

 “How did you find me?” Castiel demands as soon as they’re out of earshot.

          Meg and Balthazar exchange a meaningful look. They’re debating whether to be truthful. He knows this because those secret looks used to go three ways.

          “I asked you a question.” He is level, calm on the surface.

          Balthazar combs his fingers through Meg’s hair, a frown tugging at his lips. Knowing Balthazar’s romanticism, he likely expected this reunion to go much differently. “Your magic, Cassie. We traced you.”

          “Don’t lie to me.”

          “He’s not,” Meg insists, wrapping a hand around Balthazar’s waist as his movements in her hair grown faster. “We’ve had tracking spells cast for your magical essence for years, Clarence. Tonight, one of them went off. We thought it was a fluke, but Balthazar wanted to try anyway.”

          “That’s impossible. I’ve masked my magic completely. No one can sense it, let alone track it. I would be dead otherwise.”

          “We didn’t say the spell went off for _you_ ,,” Balthazar interjects. “Just your magic. Have you shared it with anyone recently?”

          “Enough to leave traceable residue,” Meg adds.

           It takes Castiel a moment too long to come to the conclusion that they’ve already reached.

          _Dean._

          He’s healed him, trained him. Castiel’s magic must be _coating_ him.

          “At least he has a pretty mouth,” Balthazar says mournfully. “It would have been rude if you’d replaced us for anyone less.”

          “I have to-someone else could-fuck.” Castiel moves to head back to the bar, but Meg flounces in front of him, hands on his chest.

          “Balthazar took care of your boy toy earlier,” Meg says.

          “He’s masked, but you’ll need to give him a good rubdown later to truly rid him of your essence,” Balthazar says. “Shouldn’t be a hardship.”

          Castiel mouth presses into a firm line. “Why? Why did you mask him, why did you find me? What do you two want?”

          “You. We want you, you faithless bastard.” Meg scowls. “You up and vanished after that brat died. You-ungh,” the rest of Meg’s words are cut off by the pressure of Castiel’s hand round her throat.

          “Do. Not. Speak. Of. Her.”

          Despite losing blood pressure north of her neck, Meg manages a grin. “Knew…you…still…had…it.”

          With a sneer, Castiel pushes her off. She gasps, circling the reddened area with her gloved hands. Castiel curls his fingers into a fist.

          “I left because I was done. Because the life we were leading no longer appealed.”

          “Cassie.” Balthazar steps closer, cool blue eyes wide in supplication. “You didn’t give us the chance to go with you. You simply vanished into thin air. That _hurt_.”

          “We would have come, if you asked,” Meg says, straightening. “We can help keep you safe.”

          “I don’t need your help.”

          “Don’t be daft, love,” Balthazar sighs. “If we could find you, its only a matter of time until someone equally motivated shows up with a much more nefarious purpose.”

          “Haven’t you missed us at all, Clarence?” Meg asks, vulnerability threading through her voice. “Didn;y you regret leaving us, even a little?”

          In the event that Meg and Balthazar found him, Castiel always thought they’d be angry. That they’d hit, and scream, and rage. This…abandonment complex is the furthest thing from what he expected, and it lowers his guard a fraction.

          “I did miss you,” Cas tells them honestly. “But you’re lying to your yourselves if you think a stable life would satisfy you.”

          Meg comes closer, cupping Castiel’s jaw and guiding his gaze down. “Does it satisfy _you_ , Castiel?”

          The question finds its mark, burrowing into Castiel’s nest of regret, of restlessness, of coiled bitterness. His silence is as good as an answer, and Meg exhales remorsefully, returning to Balthazar’s side.

          “You’re not safe, Clarence. You’re trusting the pretty drunk in the bar, and it’s gonna get you killed.”

          “Should you decide the stable life is not your cup of tea, find us,” Balthazar says. He holds out a miniscule vial towards Castiel. “We won’t be far.”

          He just wants them gone. Castiel takes the vial, pocketing it without a closer look at the contents. He’s got a fair idea anyway. “I won’t need it.”

          Meg slips her hand into Balthazar’s. “You might.”

          “We love you, Cassie. You’re _ours_ , and we’ll take care of you, just like you’ve taken care of us.”

          With their free hands, Meg and Balthazar slash two parallel lines into the air and tug the lines apart, opening a portal big enough to take the both of them.

          At the threshold, Meg hesitates, glancing back at Castiel. “The Hallowed Three aren’t suited for a stable life, Clarence. But there is a middle. We can find it, if you’re willing to try.”

          The portal closes around them, the glowing seams knitting and dissolving in the air. Castiel feels for the vial in his pocket and grimaces. He should throw it out. Should’ve never taken it in the first place.

Then again, its always good to have information, whether or not he ever uses it.

          Castiel returns to the bar, more than ready for the drinks he’s yet to imbibe. The crowd has significantly thinned while he was occupied, and he’s able to spot their table easily.

          Approaching, he notices that unlike his friends, Dean’s cheek is pressed to the table, clutching the bottle close, as if someone’s tried to take it from him once already. “Dean?” Cas asks, frowning. He couldn’t have been gone for more than twenty minutes.

          “He returns at last!” Bela declares sardonically. “Did you get your motor oiled, friend?”

          “What’s wrong with him?” Castiel says, reaching for the bottle Dean’s gripping only for the man to shrink away. “What did he drink?”

          “A Gifted down in South America brewed a particularly nasty brand of rotgut,” Victor says. “Dean here couldn’t wait to try it. Multiple times.”

          “He’s been mumbling nonsense and asking us to guess a number.” Benny levels an irritated glance at his partially-poisoned comrade. “Talkin’ about souls and reapers and kegs. If he tries to drink a drop later tonight, lock him up somewhere.”

          _Damn it_. A drunk Dean devoid of a filter isn’t a danger Castiel factored in. “I should take him home.”

          “Be for the best,” Benny agrees. “You need help getting him to the car?”

          “’m _fine_ ,” Dean slurs, lifting his head and thumping the table hard enough to shake the glasses. “Nex’ round.”

          Gritting his teeth, Castiel grips Dean’s bicep and hauls the man to his feet. Dean stumbles, knocking over his chair and narrowly avoiding pitching into Castiel. He weakly tugs. “Man, lemme go.”

           “It was a pleasure meeting you all,” Castiel says to Dean’s friends, who are collectively watching the spectacle Dean’s making of himself with a range of familiar exasperation and annoyance. Except Gabe, who is keeping with the trend of the evening and inspecting Castiel. If they were in a more private setting, Castiel would already have the man bloody on the ground, a truth charm gouged into his flesh. He curls his lip.

          Gabe smirks, but averts his eyes.

          “He knowssssss! Knows when yer gonna buy the farm and milk the cows,” Dean barks. Castiel freezes.

          Thankfully, no one leaps to their feet in horror, and no Magical Science corps descend on him with scalps and spells. The drunk is just that- _drunk_. The irritation simmering in Castiel’s gut grows, expounding exponentially with Dean’s carelessness. He trusted him, coming out tonight, and Dean is throwing it in his face.  

          “You need help getting him to the car?” Victor asks.

          “I can manage on my own, thanks,” Cas says with a tight smile. Another moment in this bar and he’ll lose it. He’s got half a mind to portal them home, avoid the long drive and get Dean into bed faster, but he’s well-aware of Dean’s rabid attachment to his car. Not to mention, in his current state and portalling phobia, the nausea might be too much for Dean’s stomach.

          With an arm around his waist and the other keeping Dean’s arm secured around his shoulder, Castiel makes the laborious trip outside. Dean shivers as soon as they step outside. “’S cold.”

          Propping Dean up against the side of the car, Cas quickly and efficiently slides his hands into Dean’s pockets, locating the Impala’s keys. Dean swats at him and _giggles_. “Takin’ ‘vantage of me, Cas?”

          “Of course not,” Castiel clips impatiently, struggling to get Dean upright in the passenger seat long enough to get the seatbelt over him. When he rips off the strip of leather for the third time (“Choking me, Cas, chokin’!”), Cas gives up.

          “ _Aribat,_ ” he growls. The air around Dean shimmers for a millisecond, the barrier spell taking effect. That should keep Dean from pitching through any glass.

          As soon as he’s behind the wheel, Cas turns the knob of the heat as high as it’ll go. It smells musty and faintly like burnt hair, but better than nothing. The roads are clear, which is a mercy, because apparently Dean is a chatty drunk.

          “Why’d we leave? Jus’ star’in to have fun. You were havin’ fun, right? Thought you left to have your fun ‘cause ‘m no fun for you.” Dean gets poutier and poutier the more he speaks. If Castiel weren’t so annoyed, it would be adorable.

          “You’re not making any sense.”

          “You, you’re no makin’ senense.”

          “Senense?”

          “You ‘eard me.”

          Putting on music would probably lull Dean into sleep, but Cas can’t drum up the martyrdom necessary to bear through Dean’s chaotic tapes right now. He’ll have to hope the heat and the steady hum of the engine will be enough.

          No such luck.

          “I wouldn’t mind,” Dean blurts, turning his body towards Castiel. His voice is low, and if it weren’t warbled by the effect of the liquor, seductive.

          “What wouldn’t you mind?”

          “You, if you wanted to take advantage of me, wouldn’t count cause I don’t mind.”

          Castiel goes still as stone. His heart thunders in his chest.  

          “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

          “Like hell,” Dean says, and it’s the most lucid he’s sounded all night.

          “Dean-”

          “No, no, don’t do that, I’m not your patient, I don’t need patching up.”

          This is going all wrong. Dean’s made no indication that he’s interested in men, let alone Castiel. His stories involved women, and when they’d watch the holo, Dean would scoot up on the coffee table and joke that the holographic woman was sitting on his lap and Cas should leave the room.

          A light snore comes from the passenger side. A quick glance confirms it: Dean’s asleep.

          Finally, Castiel allows his rigid muscles to loosen. With the vial in his pocket weighing him down like a brick and Dean’s measured breathing against his elbow, Cas feels claustrophobic. He’s adjusted to being on his own, found comfort in it. Meg is wrong; he is satisfied with this life. And Dean…Dean will sober up, pretend this night never happened, and Castiel will help with the charade.

          When he finally parks in front of the house, Castiel’s first impulse is to levitate Dean up and out. Thoughtless. If he has any hope of keeping his magic from embedding deeper into Dean’s, Castiel has to be better about remembering what he can and can’t share with the Slayer.

          He snorts. Theme of the night.

          Picking up Dean, Castiel winces at the complaint from his knees as he walks slowly to the front door. Dean’s heavy, and Castiel’s exercise is not focused on weight-bearing. An upgrade in regime might be in order.

          By some miracle, he gets past the scanner and inside without dropping Dean. But the moment they cross the threshold, and Castiel is kicking the door shut behind him, Dean whirls out of Castiel’s arms, landing in a crouch on the ground.

          Castiel’s legs are knocked out from beneath him. He hits the floor hard, and is instantly pinned to the tile. Dean looms over him, and even in the dark, Castiel can see how blown his pupils are. His breath smells sweet and sugary. What was in that infernal drink Ash served?

          “Where are we?” Dean whispers, his hold on Castiel’s wrists tightening to the point of pain. “Are we home?”

          Something in Castiel’s chest twists. “Yes, Dean. We’re home.”

          “Good. Should’a never left, should’a stayed home with you,” Dean murmurs. He buries his face in the crook of Castiel’s neck. “Nex’ time don’ listen to me.” His lips are damp, shaping the words against Castiel’s pulse.

          “Noted.” Most of his circulatory system’s migrated south, and the only thing Cas can think about is throwing Dean on his back and licking into his mouth, parting his legs with a knee and unraveling this man with his hands, his lips, his cock.

          But it’ll have to wait.

          Dean shivers, and mumbles a protest when a burst of magic smoothly brings Cas to his feet. He easily catches Dean. So much for keeping his magic to himself. Balthazar’s efforts to neutralize Dean’s trace are blown to nil. “You need sleep. We can talk in the morning.”

          In no surviving realm is he allowing Dean to sleep on the couch tonight. He deposits Dean in his bed, tugging off his shoes and belt before tucking him beneath the covers. Dean shivers again, sending a bolt of worry through Castiel. If any aversive side-affects come to Dean as a result of this, Castiel will raze the Roadhouse to the ground, and Ash can sweep the remains with his ratty mullet.

          Giving Dean a sleep-aide would help him rest easier, but Castiel doesn’t want to risk mixing magics. Once whatever this is passes, the intoxicant should be out of his system. In the meantime, Castiel will keep an eye on him.

          In the kitchen, Castiel distractedly waves the kettle on and drops a caffeinated tea bag into his mug. Weariness tugs on his senses, slowing him down. First the adrenaline crash from his match with Dean and now this. He’d kill for a few hours of sleep, but not until he’s sure Dean’s system’s been purged. Until then, Castiel predicts a merry old time convincing his libido to give it a rest.

          He’s bent over the sink, splashing cold water on his feverishly warm cheeks, when the cold edge of a knife slides beneath his chin.

          Castiel straightens, only for the knife to dig in deeper, just barely slicing skin.

          “Where the hell am I? Who are you?” a rough voice, scratchy from disuse, demands. “What did you do to my brother?”

          Sam Winchester is awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'allo, folks! A heads-up: I will most likely not be posting for another week or two because of exams. But as soon as they're over, I hope to return triumphant (or in desperate need of your validation lol).   
> Sorry about the slight cliffhanger, 'twas not on purpose (kinda).   
> I'll post progress updates on [my tumblr](https://atarnishedcompass.tumblr.com)  
> I feed on your comments like wraiths feed on...brains? blood? heartfelt poetry?


	10. Breath of Yesterday

Chapter 10-Breath of Yesterday

It’s a tricky line to tread.

          Disarming Sam would be child’s play. He’s still weak, and he’s not anywhere as seasoned a fighter as his brother. But this is the boy he’s spent nearly two weeks pouring magic and medicine into, and he’s not going to ruin his efforts by tossing Sam across the far wall.

          Although if he digs that knife any deeper, Cas might just change his mind.

          “Put the knife down and I’ll answer your questions,” Cas begins soothingly. “You’re agitated. I can help.”

          “How about I stay right where I am and you answer anyway?”

          Cas rolls his eyes. There goes any doubt that Sam and Dean are related.

          “Your brother is asleep in the bedroom. We’ve spent the better part of two weeks healing you after a Devourer nearly ended your life. Charlie recommended me to your brother.”

          Charlie’s name seems to take some of the wind from Sam’s sails. “Charlie? Charlie Bradbury?” then, “How do I know you’re not lying?”

          This time, when Sam’s wobbly grip on the knife nicks Castiel’s throat, his patience reaches its conclusion. In a flash, he’s twisting Sam’s wrist and shoving him back. The knife clatters to the ground.

          Fragile and surprised as he is, Sam is still fast to recover. He swings at Castiel, which is when Cas realizes just how enormous his patient actually is when he’s not laying in a bed. Fending Sam off without inflicting harm proves to be almost impossible, but Castiel does his best.

          “Sam, listen to me,” Cas tries again, ducking to avoid another punch. Is there some allele for hitting first, asking second in these boys' genome? “Dean is asleep in the room. Charlie is here somewhere, too.”

          “Dean’s a light sleeper.” Sam grunts with frustration when Castiel continues to systematically avoid getting hit. “If he was here, he’d have woken up the second you dropped my knife.”

          The next swing meets its mark, hitting Castiel’s cheek with a meaty thud. Pain blooms across his face, and he spits blood on the tile. “Sam, please don’t make me hurt you.”

          Luckily for them both, the sound of a door opening momentarily suspends the violence.

           “Bruh, how am I supposed to ransack a village when your magic is slamming all over the place?” Charlie complains loudly. She stops at the front of the hall, flanked by three Middle Realm warriors. He should’ve figured she’d play around with his parchment creatures. If the situation wasn’t what it is, he’d give her an earful about her lackluster supervision skills.

          “Sam? Holy shit! You’re awake!”

          “Charlie?” Sam says. Cas can almost see his brain skidding to a halt. “Are you real?”

          Palpitating his throbbing cheek, Cas snaps his fingers, dissolving the Middle Realm warriors into clouds of fluttery parchment. “She’s real.”

          “Oh man, its so good to see you up and about!” Charlie bounds over to Sam, throwing her arms around his middle. Hesitantly, Sam pats the top of her head.

          “I-I think I need to sit down.” Untangling himself from Charlie, Sam turns only to stumble, catching himself on the back of the couch just in time.

          Because he’s apparently the patron saint of patience tonight, Cas takes the arm that’s undoubtedly done a number on his face and guides Sam to the couch. He collapses onto it, ashen and out of breath. The fool has utterly overtaxed himself.

          “I don’t understand what’s going on. I haven’t seen you in years. And who’s _he_?”

          “This is Cas. Friendly neighborhood Boo Radley, mixer of magic and ignorant of all things pop culture. He’s the one who brought you back from the brink.”

          The suspicion in Sam’s eyes is so reminiscent of Dean’s first few days here that Cas can’t help but wince. “She’s right. And your brother is here, I swear it. The only reason he hasn’t woken up is because he drank something particularly powerful at the Roadhouse.”

          “That sounds like Dean,” Sam admits. “Guess this makes me kind of a dick, huh?”

          “Your reaction was understandable, given the circumstances,” Cas replies diplomatically.

          “Still. Sorry.”

          “Its forgiven. Would you like to see Dean? It might be safe to give him a Lucid elixir now.”

          Suddenly, Sam looks about ten years younger and eons more awkward. “Oh, no, don’t wake him up on my account. It’ll keep till morning.”

          “I think he’d want to be woken up for this,” Charlie disagrees.

          Sam’s magic, while still pure and airy, has a starchy undertone to it. As a Gifted, Charlie’s not capable of picking up the nuance, but Sam’s inexplicable nerves are not lost on Castiel.

          “He’s right. We should let Dean sleep it off.”

          “But-”

          “I think you should head home, Charlie. Thank you for helping out tonight.”

          Pursing her lips, Charlie gives him a flinty glare that doesn’t bode well. Nevertheless, she kisses Sam’s forehead and willingly steps into the portal Cas opens for her. “I’ll be back. Soon.”

          Cas closes the portal.

          Without Charlie present, there’s nothing to redirect the uneasiness between them. Cas clears his throat and gestures at the couch. “You should rest. Your body is still healing.”

          “Oh. Yeah. I’ll, uh, I’ll do that. Thanks?”

          He waits for Sam to stand so Cas can convert the couch, but the former only picks at the fabric stretched over his knees and hides behind the loose, greasy strands of his hair.

          Fine, then. Cas waves, relishing Sam’s startled curse when the couch flattens and softens, pillows and blankets sliding to their proper places.

          “Goodnight, Sam.”

          On his way to his bedroom, Cas considers warding the hall to keep Sam from exploring, but he figures that might not help with the whole trust issue. Hopefully he has enough sense not to snoop and accidentally transform himself into a long-haired plant.

          Its only after Cas has changed for bed that he realizes he’s effectively out of sleeping options. The couch is out of commission, and he’d rather clean the stones of hell with his tongue than sleep on Sam’s medical bed.

          Which only leaves his bed or the floor. The mattress is certainly wide enough to comfortably support two grown men sleeping on it. And if Dean keeps to his side of the bed, they might not even brush elbows.

          Prolonged rationalization of a decision can only mean it’s the wrong one to make. With a beleaguered sigh, Cas arranges pillows and blankets on the floor.

          He listens to Dean’s even breathing for a while. This is it. What he’s been afraid of has finally come to fruition.

          Dean is going to leave.

          He was never meant to stay with Castiel long. He doesn’t know why this hurts so much. The sun rises and the sun sets. Dean leaves, and Castiel remains.

          It’s his own fault for letting himself get so attached to the Slayer, knowing full well nothing could come of it. He’s glad this is so profoundly painful, because he clearly needs a reminder.

          Nothing is forever, and Dean is not his to keep.

          He deserves better than Castiel. Better than to be weighed down by secrets and sins, always running. He’ll never forget the look on Dean’s face the night Becky the cashier met her end. A glimpse behind the veil had Dean nearly catatonic. Castiel can’t- _won’t_ -pull him through to the other side, won’t pollute the life brightening eyes that have permanently made a home in Castiel’s heart.

          It’ll be okay. It has to be. Dean will leave, life will go on. He’ll have more time and more magic to dedicate to his work. He can go back to dry nutrition pills in lieu of meals. His peonies might wilt and wither, nobody will remind him to cast the thermostat spell, and his home will echo in search of Dean’s missing laughter, but it. Will. Be. Okay.

          He lies to himself and remembers he’s survived worse.

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          A marching band holds practice in Dean’s cranium.

          He sits up, hand already raised rub his neck, where a constant crick has served as his alarm the past two weeks. Today, though, there’s nothing.

          Because apparently Dean…fell asleep in Castiel’s bed?

          Fuck. Fuck squared.

          Why’s he in Castiel’s bed?

          At least he’s alone. Dean’s not sure what he would’ve done if he’d woken up with an armful of sleepy Cas. Probably fueled his spank bank for another decade.

          The first thing Dean sees upon standing are a pair of familiar pale legs, one bent at the knee. And there’s Cas, out like a light on the floor.

          Jesus, what _happened_ last night?

          The last memory Dean has ends with, ‘Hell yeah I wanna try that!’, and knocking back the drink Ash reluctantly set in front of him. Normally, he knows better than to drink the shit Ash comes up with, preferring to avoid the weird acid trip of whatever magic secret ingredient he’s snuck in. But normally he isn’t harboring a massive, moronic crush on a jaded, occasionally psychotic, hermit. A hermit whose hair is in absolute chaos, pillowy lips parted in sleep, and shirt rucked up over a flat, tantalizing stomach.

          Dean snorts quietly, remembering how there was a time in his life where he thought most dudes normally salivated at the sight of happy trails. To be fair, Castiel’s is especially tempting.

          Definitely time for coffee. Later he might grab a shower and take care of the dilemma tenting his pants, undoubtedly spilling over his fist with a three-letter name torn from clenched teeth. But, coffee first.

          The floor is cold under his bare feet. He’s got half a mind to cast the thermostat spell himself and hike the temperature to broiling, just to teach Cas a lesson. Yawning, he scratches his belly and activates Grace. Castiel had programmed her to respond to Dean two days ago, pretending it was no big deal, as if Dean wouldn’t know better. Wouldn’t be floored by the trust he-not Charlie, not anybody else- has been given.

          “Grace, I’ve got a hankerin’ for some Brazilian beans, with milk from… France? Yeah, France.”

          A pulse sets the nerves in his right arm tingling, and there on the counter is a mug of freshly brewed coffee, a saucer of milk on the side. Dean’s whistling loudly as he stirs the milk into his mug. It’ll be a good day. He’s got plans for those peonies. They won’t see him coming.

          “Oh my God, shut _up_.”

          A head of princess brown hair, matted on the side, pops up over the couch. Its owner is squinting, lines across his forehead from the pillow. His hand goes to his neck, claiming Dean’s crick.

          “S-Sammy?” He checks the medical bed, finding it empty. The one morning he skips rounds, and-“You’re awake!”

          Despite the patented bitchface Sam is sporting, there’s a twinkle in his eye. “Thanks to you, Tweety Bird. Since when are you a morning person?”

          “I don’t hit the infirm, Sam, but I might make an exception,” Dean snipes, and rounds the couch bed. As soon as Sam’s on his feet, Dean’s got his arms around his shoulders, crushing him. Sam holds onto him just as tightly.

          Sam’s okay. He’s alive and healthy enough to bitch at Dean. He could cry right now, he’s so relieved. “You took ten years off my life, jackass. And with my boozin’ those are years I need.”

          “Speaking of,” Sam says, pulling away. “I nearly killed my doctor yesterday because you were blacked out.”

          “You _what_?!”

          “To be fair, the last thing I remember is running for my life and portalling into your car. I woke up still freaking out and he was right there, but you weren’t.”

          Despite having checked on him not ten minutes ago, Dean’s gripped with the urge to return to the room and be more thorough. “He’s the reason you’re alive, dude.”

          The repentant furrow in Sam’s brow is barely enough to keep him from lecturing his brother. Sighing, he lets it go. “Come on, you need to eat. You look like shit.”

          Sam hops on a stool while Dean extracts the ingredients for an omelet from the fridge. “So who is this guy, anyway? He said Charlie recommended him, but she’s never mentioned him to me.”

          “Oh, so you still keep in touch with Charlie? Good to know you haven’t cut all your roots,” Dean replies, beating the eggs with more force than necessary. Sam’s expression goes blank and neutral.

          “I wasn’t the one who abandoned my family to go kill Ravine.”

          “Sorry I didn’t want to ride Mom’s coattails straight to the top.”

          “Really, Dean? We’re doing this now?”

          As much as Dean would like nothing more than to get into it with Sam, he really does look like death warmed over. The issue will keep.

          “She didn’t mention Cas because he’s an incredibly private person. I had to beg him to treat you instead of sending you off to a medmage.”

          “Huh. What’s his Pursuit?”

          “Medical Composition. Just wait till you get the tour, this place is a trip.”

          While Dean plates the first of the omelets, Sam picks up the coffee mug and takes a sip. He moans. “This is heaven. Where does he buy his coffee beans?”

          “That’s mine!”

          Keeping the mug away from Dean’s swiping paws, Sam hurriedly licks the rim, coating it in his germy saliva. “Not anymore.”

          “Bitch!”

          “Jerk.”

          They smile at each other.

          Dean’s got the third omelet on the skillet, Sam wolfing down his, when Cas walks out, hair still fucked to high heaven.

          He blinks when he spots the two of them. “You didn’t leave.”

          Dean tries not to show how much the comment stings. “Uh, no, not yet. But we can get out of your hair-”

          “No!” Cas says quickly, taking Dean aback. “I just meant-I was just worried you might have left without saying goodbye.”

          Relief trickles through him, somewhat restoring his good mood. “C’mon Cas, I don’t just milk a guy’s magic and bolt.”

          “I wish you’d phrased that differently,” Cas says. He points at the third omelet. “Is that for me?”

          “You bet. Cop a squat and dig in.”

          “Good morning, Sam,” Cas says cordially, taking the seat adjacent to Sam.

          Sam’s chewing slowly, a speculative glint in the way he’s watching Dean, but he nods to Cas. “Morning…Cas, is it?”

          “It is.”

          “I didn’t say this last night, but thanks for helping me out. I was sure I was a goner.”

          Castiel’s gaze flicks to Dean, as if he can sense how his blood pressure skyrocketed with Sam’s casual mention of his near-death. “No thanks necessary. I’m glad to have been of service.”

          Cas pushes a clump of his hair off his forehead, inadvertently giving Dean a good look at the right side of his face.

          “Christ, Cas! What the hell happened?” Dean blurts. How could he have missed that welt on his cheek?

          What if-oh, God, what if-“I didn’t do that, did I? While I was-please tell me that wasn’t me.”

          “You aren’t an aggressive drunk,” Cas says. Is it Dean’s imagination or is smirking down at his plate? Which only opens Dean up to a host of other questions, but he’ll take any of them over the possibility that he could have laid a hand on Cas.

          Without thinking about it, Dean tips Castiel’s chin towards him, framing his neck and angling the welt into the light. It’s a piece of cake to heal, even with Dean’s meager power reserves. He’s lifting his hand to do just that when Cas stops him, a strangely skittish look on his face. “You don’t have to do that. I’ll apply an ointment later.”

          “I’m right here, might as well-”

          “Dean. Please.” Gently, Cas removes Dean’s hands from his face, taking the bite out of the rejection with one of his half-smiles. “You have to tell me how you made your eggs so fluffy. This is better than anything Grace has delivered.”

          Still a little discomfited, Dean takes a beat too long to answer. “Uh, the milk. Whisk it with milk.”

          Nodding thoughtfully, Cas scarfs down the rest of his plate. It’s flattering, and Dean tries not to be smug that his eggs are better than any of the fancy kind Grace has conjured up.

          Dean had forgotten Sam was still sitting there until he clears his throat, eyes darting curiously between them. “Sorry about that, man.” Sam gestures at the welt with apologetically. “Reflex.”

          “That was you? What else, did you knife the guy?

          Cas and Sam exchange a glance.

          Dean is never friggin’ drinking again.

         

 

          After Cas strong-arms Dean into letting him wash the dishes, Dean’s left to consider the imminent notion of his departure.

          He watches the muscles of Cas’s back flex beneath his shirt, following them down to where his sweatpants hang off narrow hips, their sharp fragility at odds with the rest of his strong, built body.

          He’s not ready to go.

          Never, not under penalty of death, would Dean admit that a tiny, tiny part of him wishes Sam had stayed out for just a little while longer. Long enough for…for what? Cas made no secret of the fact that Dean’s presence is a wrench in his one-man operation. Sure, when Cas flashed him a particularly indulgent smile or asked Dean to fix his pixelated holographics so he could further enjoy the miracles of Dr. Sexy, Dean thought... _maybe_. Maybe he’s not in this alone.

          Maybe he won’t be bottled up and sent off like any other of Castiel’s projects. Just another service to mankind sealed and delivered.

          “Penny for your thoughts,” Cas says, drying his hands on a dish towel, hip propped against the counter.

          “You know that saying?”

          “Dr. Sexy may not be medically valid, but it does have its uses.”

          “Are you tryna tell me I couldn’t resect a beating heart while blindfolded and held at gunpoint in the middle of Times Square on New Year’s Eve?”

          “That sounds like a potential season finale. You should seek representation.”

          “Way ahead of you.”

          The smile Cas gives him is dimmer than usual, less gummy. “I’m going to miss you, Dean.”

          “Yeah?” Dean’s voice does not break, nope.

          “Yeah.”

           Sam emerges from the hall, freshly showered and dressed. His complexion is still waxy, and he won’t be doing marathons any time, but his brother survived. He made it, thanks to Cas. A debt Dean can never hope to repay.

          “Man, you’ve got awesome water pressure. You’ll have to give me the spell you used to get the shower heads to move around like that.”

          “I’d be happy to,” Cas replies, replacing the dish towel in its rightful place. “If you wouldn’t mind, Sam, I’d like to check on you one last time before issuing the all-clear.”

          It might be Dean’s imagination playing tricks on him, but there’s a rigidity in Castiel’s posture that wasn’t there before, an artificiality to the smile he aims at Sam. Sam did deck the dude, so its not farfetched to think Cas might have some lingering resentment.

          While Sam settles on the couch, Cas perches on the edge of the coffee table, the whole scenario too reminiscent of his time healing Cas. First his knuckles, then his mouth. But he sincerely doubts Sam feels heat kindling in the pit of his belly whenever Cas touches him, or a longing ache every time his hand lingers just a fraction too long, or when his eyes soften with something other than clinical detachment.

          “Jeez, man,” Sam gulps as Cas spreads his fingers on Sam’s chest, holding still. “Don’t know if anyone’s ever mentioned this, but your magic is kind of intense.”

          “Its been mentioned.”

          “Your magic is clean. Nothing lingers of the Devourer, and your immune system has repaired the damage done to it when you drew power from your organs. Would you mind laying down? Flat on your back, please.”

          Then Cas, in his patented Castiel way, takes the elephant prancing around the room by the tusk and commands it to heel.

          “If I might ask, Sam, what were you doing with a Devourer in the first place?”

         

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          Castiel dreads what he has to do next.

          While he pokes and prods at Sam, searching for a weak spot he knows isn’t there, Sam blinks at the abruptly posed question.

          “Um. It’s a long story.”

          “We’re all ears,” Dean interjects.

          Sam hisses when Cas digs into his rib. “Easy there.”

          “Apologies.”

          “Sam, answer Cas’s question.”

          “Can we do this later? In private?”

          “You can trust Cas,” Dean says, and pauses long enough for Castiel’s heart to skip a beat. “I do.”

          Shame burns through him, refusing to leave an inch of him unscathed. He doesn’t deserve Dean’s trust. Especially not when he’s about to betray it.

          Sam sighs, fixing his gaze on the ceiling while Cas palpates his abdomen. Sam is of sound health; Castiel is only staving off the inevitable.

          “I’m looking for someone. A…friend of mine. She disappeared a few weeks ago, and I’ve been tracking her since. I doubt I’ll be able to find her trail now.”

          “Disappeared how?”

          “She was in hiding when I met her. I know she wouldn’t have left without telling me, without taking her things. The person who has her is dangerous, and I need to get her back before its too late.” As Sam speaks, his agitation becomes more palpable.

          “Slow down, Sam. You have to start at the beginning. I won’t even judge you for not coming to me as soon as she vanished. I do this kind of shit for a living, kid, or did you forget?”

          Sam glances sharply at Cas, and when he doesn’t find a reaction, glares up at Dean. “You told him what you do? Dean, Mom asked you not to spread it around. It’ll reflect badly on her if people knew her son was…what you are.”

          If Castiel’s next push against Sam’s chest is harder than necessary-well, can anyone blame him?

          “Iron out your panties, princess. I don’t go around announcing it to people. You and Mom won’t be damaged by your icky sticky Slayer brother. Stop changing the subject.”

          Castiel is out of time to stall. As curious as he is to hear the younger Winchester’s tale of mystery, he can’t. If he waits any longer to do what needs to be done, he’ll almost certainly reconsider. Like a lovesick fool.

          Letting his eyes fall shut, Castiel releases wisps of his magic, soft and windy, towards Dean. Thunder and ocean wrap around earthy wood and forest, insidious. Infiltrating.

          Dean hits the wall between one breath and the next, eyes wide as he struggles against the invisible binds on his body.

          Castiel straddles Sam’s chest and grabs the large man’s jaw. It’s substantially easier to immobilize Sam in his weakened state, even easier to compel him to open his mouth. He’s frightened, the panicked lash of his magic setting Castiel on edge.

          “ _Insa wa irfa’a,”_ Castiel murmurs, lips parted, hovering a few inches from Sam’s mouth. The spell fills the space, a writhing, smoky mass, leaving Castiel’s mouth and into Sam. It tastes like ash, but that might be the tang of Castiel’s guilt. 

          Sam’s eyes glaze when the last wisp has been absorbed into him. With a finger on Sam’s forehead, Castiel paints the perimeters of his spell, an artist in this brand of darkness.

          He leaves Sam’s cortex incorporating the spell and walks to Dean, who’s stopped struggling and is staring at Cas, rage, disbelief, and betrayal warring across his features. It hurts, heavens does it hurt, but Cas can’t fault him.

          “What-what did you just do to Sam? What are you doing, Cas?” Dean growls. “Let me go.”

          Cas steps right into Dean’s space, close enough to count the freckles across his sunkissed cheeks, to trace the bump on his nose should he desire. And he does, he does desire Dean, as wanted as rain upon a dying man.

          “I’m sorry, Dean,” Cas whispers. “This isn’t what I wanted. I swear.”

          “What? What’s happening? Talk to me, man. Please.”

          “I can’t let you leave with any memories of me,” Cas says, and lowers his gaze. “It’ll put you in danger, Dean. People will hurt you to get to me. Hurt Sam.”

          “This is about your secret. The big, bad one you won’t tell me because you think I can’t take it.” At Cas’s shock, Dean scoffs. “Might not be the sharpest tool in shed, Cas, but I’m not blind.”

          Dean strains against his ties, but this time Castiel thinks it’s less about getting free, and more about getting close. “You can trust me.”

          “You almost told your friends all about me at the bar, Dean! And even if I wasn’t worried that the right drink might spill the truth from you, the kind of people who are after me wouldn’t ask nicely for my whereabouts. They will bleed you. They will torture you until my name is a stain on your lips. And worse, they will violate you, use their magic to root around in your mind until they find what they’re looking for.”

          Cas’s voice is alarmingly wobbly when he finishes. “I won’t allow that. You mean too much to me.”

          “Cas,” Dean whispers, but Castiel’s resolve is unwavering this time. He won’t put Dean in jeopardy.

          He cups Dean’s jaw, much gentler than he’d been with Sam, and coaxes his lips apart. “Sam was hurt. You took him to Seal Hospital to heal. You never called Charlie. You didn’t leave Sam’s bedside.”

          Castiel’s eyes overflow, wetness sticky on his cheeks. “You never met me.”

          Dean’s lips move beneath Castiel’s thumbs, shaping words. Emerald green eyes, reflecting a soul bright enough to blind, are desperate, pleading.

          “Goodbye, Dean. Be careful.”

          And because Dean won’t remember any of this, Cas whispers, “Take care of yourself, because for all the death I’ve seen, I never appreciated life until it was with you.”

          A single tear runs down the side of Dean’s face as the spell takes form, shimmering opal particles coalescing in the sparse air.

“ _Insa wa irfa’a._ ”

The threads of light burn, pulsing with the power of the spell, cementing his intent. For the barest second, while the last of the light spills into Dean, Cas imagines another situation where he could bridge the gap and kiss these lips, seal them beneath his own.

Then Dean’s eyes glaze over, and the binds fall away.

Much like his parchment creatures, Sam and Dean stand straight and follow Castiel to the bay window, where he’d placed Sam beneath the sun’s rejuvenating rays.

          He unzips a portal, widening it enough to fit the Winchester brothers. Snow, desert, cities, and monuments flit through the pocket of space, and Cas remembers with a pang of regret how much portalling upsets Dean’s stomach. But driving is too risky.

          “Where do you live, Dean?”

          Dean robotically recites an address Cas will try his damndest to forget.

          The portal changes, now presenting the interior of a small, cluttered apartment. Cas catches glimpses of unorganized books and a well-loved chair before he forces his gaze away.

          “Once you step into this portal, you will wake up, your last memory of leaving Seal Hospital with a clean bill of health for Sam.” Cas wants to tack on more, use the advantage to smooth over some of the obvious tension between the brothers, but its not his place. This spell risks abuse in the best of circumstances, and Castiel refuses to cross that line, however well-intentioned it may be.

          Sam enters, followed by Dean. Although there isn’t a flicker of recognition in his eyes, Cas lets himself pretend. Pretend that somewhere deep down, part of Dean will remember him. That the gratitude, the _love,_ rattling around in Castiel’s chest will take root and quietly live, unobtrusive, in a secluded corner of Dean’s dazzling soul.

          “I won’t forget your car,” Cas promises, and closes the portal.

          On his weary return from portalling the Impala back to its owner, Castiel notices the peonies, shyly blooming in the now-healthy dirt.

          He steps past them, into his cold and empty home, and hopes that this batch will survive, and that he’ll be here to see if they do.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Twist- I'm updating even though I should've been studying. But I'm quarantined in my apartment while the Thomas Fire rages twenty miles away and covers my campus with ash and my roommate fled back to NorCal, so I have some time to kill. I want to reply to all your wonderful comments on the last chapter, and I will as soon as I'm out this weird, nonsensical mood (hmm..are isolation blues a thing?).  
> We're getting into the meat of the story now, and random bits that seemed out of place will start making some senense (heh).


	11. Echo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings for**  
> -drug abuse  
> -suicidal thoughts

Chapter Eleven-Echo

“You did _what_?!” Charlie shrieks, fists clenched at her sides in the middle of Castiel’s kitchen. He massages his temples with his index and middle fingers, the headache that’s been brewing since this godforsaken morning protesting Charlie’s volume. “A rewrite spell? Are you insane?”

          “What else would you have had me do, Charlie?” Cas snaps. He’s spent the better part of two days steeping in misery already. “I know it hasn’t escaped your attention that I’m essentially in hiding, even if I’ve been sparse with the details. I couldn’t have Dean walking around with my magic tainting him and Sam, or have the wrong person overhear them mention me.”

          “Still, Cas. Shit.” She plops onto the stool beside him. “You’re in bad shape, aren’t you?”

          “What gave it away?” he replies dryly. The mug of tea steaming in front of him isn’t soothing, and he’d long muted the musical tones now silently twirling around the mug. A hollow ache has taken root in his ribcage, yawning emptiness Castiel can’t shake.

          “How come, uh…how come you’ve never done that to me?” Charlie asks, and its awkward and slightly apprehensive, like she’s worried about planting the idea in his head.

          “Because I wanted a friend,” Cas says softly, into the rising steam of his tea. “Because you make me feel less alone.” _Because I was never an open book with you like I was for Dean._

          “Oh, Cas.” Charlie throws her arms around his neck, her hair tickling Castiel’s nose. She smells like cotton and lemon, soothing. Castiel doesn’t hug her back, but he lets the tension melt from his shoulders.

          When Charlie pulls back, there’s a new determination to her.

          “Show me.”

          “Huh?”

          “I know you’ve got memory balm somewhere in this house, Cas. Show me why things have to be this way for you.”

          “You can’t be serious,” Cas scoffs. “Why would I do that? So you can see all the reasons you should hate me in technicolor?”

          What Charlie is suggesting is pure insanity. Not only would Castiel be putting his life completely at the care of her discretion, but he’ll have to watch the foray of horror and revulsion play across her warm, open face and know he deserves it.

          He really, _really_ doesn’t want to have to rewrite Charlie, too.

          “I swear to you that I’ll die before I betray your trust,” Charlie says with complete sincerity.

          Cas jolts. “Lord, no. If it ever comes to that-comes anywhere _close_ to that- give me up faster than a teen virgin at prom.”

          At Charlie’s raised eyebrows, he clarifies, “Dean.”

          “Ah.”

          Cold sweat is breaking out across Castiel’s body. He considers the counter, which Charlie must take as a preemptive rejection, because she goes off again.

          “Please, Cas? Please. I want to understand. I hate seeing you in so much pain.”

          “Don’t waste your sympathies on me,” he mutters, and comes to a decision. A potentially destructive, certainly risky decision.

          _You fool! Power, potential, wasted on you, Castiel!_ His mother screeches distantly.

          “Stay here,” he instructs. It takes a few extra minutes to find where he’d placed the balm, but he emerges from the cauldron room with a light sheen of sweat and the memory balm.

          Charlie sits up, shock and anticipation lighting across her features. She must have thought she was fighting a losing battle. And if he hadn’t just cast out the single person on this rotting tomb of a planet who meant something to him, he doubts he would’ve agreed to this insanity.

          As it stands, Charlie means something to him, too.

          He takes a moment to memorize her like this, eager and sunny, unreserved in his presence. There’s no going back after this. Even if he rewrites her, he’ll have seen the disgust and the abhorrence. He’ll remember, even if she doesn’t.

          He applies the lip balm, recalling how Dean’s eyes would drop to his lips from time to time, only to snap back up along with a, “Ever heard of Vaseline, man?”

          “Is this the part where we smooch? It’s okay, I can handle it, just give me a second to go to my happy place. It usually involves Gilda and some essential body oils.”

          Cas smirks at Charlie’s babbling, and in lieu of correcting her, merely bucks her chin upwards and presses his slicked lips to the center of her forehead.

          It’s like static electricity, sudden and bursting, a painful pop puncturing the barriers between their minds.

          Cas isn’t interested in allowing Charlie to wander his mind uninhibited-he’s fairly certain there are fantasies he’s concocted of Dean that would traumatize her beyond repair-and instead eases into her consciousness.

          Unfortunately, it’s not that easy to control what he gets to show her from here. He knows what it is she wants to see. The truth lies behind the onyx door looming in this hungry darkness, a luminescent glint marking its presence among the emptiness.

          Cas can’t bring himself to open it.

          After a beat, the gauzy shape serving as Charlie’s consciousness saunters forward and yanks open the door.

          Color explodes, painting across the black in enormous splashes and stripes.

          They’re at Aldridge, his old boarding school. He’d recognize that obnoxiously gaudy falcon-head anywhere, mounted high in every hall and common room.

Huh. He would’ve pegged his descent into hell starting somewhere around conception.

          Then a younger version of stumbles into the view, and he understands.

          Charlie watches at his side as a preteen Castiel yanks on the arm of another boy, desperation in blue eyes too big for his skinny face. The other boy struggles against his hold.

          “Inias, please, _please,_ just come with me, I’ll explain everything once you’re safe.”

          “The other kids were right about you! You’re crazy, Castiel! Let me go!”

          “You have to believe me.” Young Cas begins to sob, hot tears raining down his cheeks. “You’re going to die, I see it, I’m looking at it right now!”

          Changing tactics, Inias stops trying to free himself from Castiel and hurls forward, using his weight to tackle Cas to the ground. Young Cas bumps his head, and in the confusion Inias scrambles away.

          “I’m not going to die,” he spits. “You’re not a savior, Castiel, you’re just sad.”

          Inias takes off down the hall. Young Cas curls on himself in the richly carpeted hallway, sobbing into his sleeve.

          They find themselves in a single dormitory room, sometime later. Young Cas stands at the window, watching as security guards and faculty below fight with the paramedics. If he’s remembering right, the staff was worried their medmage magic would clash with the protection wards keeping the students from escaping.

          The compromise was a ladder. After all, there was hardly any urgency to bring Inias down from the tree upon which he was impaled. A friendly spellcasting battle with some of the other kids had gone horribly awry, and the paramedics had to portal outside the perimeters of the Aldridge and drive into the estate. Inias was long cold and blue by then, the blood pouring from his punctured chest dry in the grooves of the oak tree.  

           Young Cas’s eyes are bloodshot but dry. His face is stony when he tugs the cord, dropping the curtain back over the window.

          From his bedside table, he pulls out a long, narrow tube, spanning wrist to the top of his hand. He lies back on the bed, motionless.

          Lifting the tube to his mouth, he snaps his fingers, lighting the tip.

          The scene changes again, taking them to him a few years later. The effect of the drugs are obvious. His clothes hang loose off his gaunt frame, dark circles constant accessories under his eyes.

          They’re standing in the science lab after hours. Teen Cas is the only one here, and from the furtive glances he keeps shooting at the entrance, is breaking the rules.

          “Just a dash…you can do it, come on, come on,” Teen Cas encourages. He pours an effervescent teal liquid into a beaker filled with a dense smoke. The result is a spark, bright in the dimmed atmosphere of the lab, and the liquid’s color changing to a brilliant maroon.

          “Yes! That’s a girl,” Teen Cas coos. “So pretty for me. Gonna make me a lot of new friends, aren’t you? No one can resist you after a taste, can they?”

          Clearly, he’s already high, because he keeps talking to the beaker as he pours measured portions into tiny vials. “My angel. I’ve made you so good, and you only get better. Better and stronger. Irresistible.”

          Using the pipette, Castiel delivers a single drop of a clear fluid into the vials.

          “ _Patenibus_ ,” Cas commands.

          Perfect, tiny circles rise from the vials, writhing smoke that only holds its shape for an instant. But its enough for Teen Cas-he’s delighted, feverish, clapping echoes in the still quiet.

          He gathers the vials into his backpack and gives it a loving stroke.

          “We’re angels. We take away people’s pain, right? And you’re my happy little helpers. My halos.”

          Teen Cas vanishes only to reappear again at a police station, sitting arrogantly in front of an aggrieved officer’s desk.

          “Young man, they found the same drug in both your systems. You’re lucky to be alive. She wasn’t so fortunate.”

          Teen Cas sneers. “It’s got nothing to do with luck. She was going to expire today, one way or another. Halo didn’t _cause_ her death.”

          “Halo?” the officer says, scribbling on his notepad. “Is that what it’s called?”

          They speed through the following years, most of the memories as new to Castiel as they must be to Charlie. As evidenced by the mass of inebriated bodies lounging in his dormitory, he spent the better part of his youth in a haze.

          But something does catch his eye.

          Most of the people drift in and out of the scenes, fleeting in Castiel’s temporal span. One person, however, recurs, over and over, until Castiel starts to wonder how he didn’t notice from the start.

          The boy has honey-colored hair and golden eyes, and he’s Castiel’s shadow at Aldridge. He cleans up after Teen Cas when he falls asleep in his puke, throws condoms at him when he disappears into his room with a gaggle of girls and boys, covers him in a blanket when he’s shivering despite the naked sunlight streaming from the window.

          There’s a constant worried, pinched look in his brow that vanishes the moment Teen Cas is looking, replaced by a lewd wink and grin.

          He’s right there, just on the cusp of putting the pieces together, when they disappear.

          He knows where they are the instant they arrive.

          The street is grimy and desolate, reserved for whores and the hopeless. A nineteen-year-old him stumbles down the street, uncoordinated and pallid. A bottle smashes somewhere behind him. Ah, yes. He’d been kicked out of a bar under the assumption he was trying to infringe on the already established drug peddling market in the neighborhood.

          It’s not long before his legs give up the fight and crumple beneath him. He barely manages to land against the wall of a tattoo parlor, sliding into a heap beside a pile of empty bottles.

          One of the girls loitering by the lamp post breaks away, sauntering over to Castiel’s pathetic form. She kicks his leg and receives a weak grumble in response.

          “Not dead, then. Good.”

          She drops to the ground beside him. She’s dressed in heels, a leather mini skirt, and a halter top. Leather gloves encase her up to the elbow.

          Castiel lifts his head far enough to peer at her in hazy bewilderment. “I’m not interested.”

          She throws her head back and laughs, tinkling and eerie. “We both know that’s not true, but we can table it for now, handsome. Who’s got you so fucked up? I know Aze’s smack isn’t good for more than a trip to the ER, but you smell different. Off.”

          “I smell?” Castiel repeats, rubbing his face. He looks properly at the prostitute and chuckles. “A little over a decade. Not bad.”

          She arches a brow, and Cas continues, “It’s actually a generous expiration date, considering your profession.”

          There’s no reaction from the woman. To this day, Castiel doesn’t know if she understood he’d just read the deadline on her life.

Lifting her hand, she pinches the glove and slides it off, revealing dainty hands and nails that still make Castiel queasy. They’ve been gnawed, shorn, ripped, leaving scabs and stubs in their place.

          She wiggles them. “Ugly, aren’t they?”

          “Did you do that?”

          “’Course. Who else?”

          “Why?”

          “Because I’m poison, sweets.” She places her index finger against Castiel’s cheek, lightly trailing it to his chin. “One swipe, I break skin, and that’s it. As effective as a shot through the head.”

          Even with this information, Castiel doesn’t flinch under her touch, just watches disinterestedly as she touches his exposed skin, light as a feather. Let her scratch him. Instant death by poison seems more merciful than the way he’s likely to go, bloody and burning and alone.

          When she withdraws her hand, its with thoughtful calculation.

          Castiel watches her replace her gloves, something like fascination in his cloudy gaze. He remembers thinking, ‘I may speak the language, but at least I don’t deal in death’. Her newly-covered hand grips Castiel’s. “I think you and I are gonna be real good friends. What’s your name, sweets?”

          The disinterest recedes slightly, but younger Castiel only thinks he’s going to get laid. Which he will, but it’s a speck, a nothing in the grand scheme of who this woman will be to him. “Castiel.”

          She squeezes his hand, a lascivious smirk on her heart-shaped face.

          “Call me Meg.”

           The rest is fresher in Castiel’s mind, unsurprising if no less grueling to observe. He and Meg tear through cities, high on Halo, until Meg gets the bright idea to start marketing it. Even then, Cas wasn’t fooled into believing the notion had just occurred to her. Meg is studious. She plans, concocts, survives. If she and Castiel hadn’t grown an unhealthy attachment to each other, Cas is certain she would have offed him and made off with the recipe for Halo early in their acquaintance.

          Of course, he’s the only person capable of creating the product, so maybe not.

          They fight, a screaming match that’s truly hideous to behold. Cas staunchly refuses to sell Halo, and the argument returns to the backburner, always there but unacknowledged. A bubbling time bomb.

          It explodes in London, at the head of Castiel’s twenty-first birthday.

          “You said it yourself! There’s nothing you can do to prevent the deaths, so shouldn’t that mean there’s nothing you can do to cause them?” Meg shouts, throwing the hotel lamp at his head. He narrowly ducks. “Your parents are cutting you off. Do you want me to go back on the street, Clarence? Would that be more _morally upstanding_?”

          “No, of course not! But Meg, I can’t. It’s different when its for fun, but _selling_ Halo? It’s wrong.”

          Meg sighs, shoulders slumping, and approaches Castiel. She wraps her arms around his middle and he automatically lifts a hand to her head, stroking her hair.

          “Can expiration dates be manipulated, Castiel?” she murmurs into his chest.

          “N-no. They’re absolute.”

          “Are we going to be cast into the cold like beggars as soon as the hotel staff realize your Print’s gone sour?”

          Cas’s arms tighten. “Probably.”

          They’re silent for a long time, Cas gently stroking Meg’s hair and staring at the far wall. Something breaks in him, an old battle lost.

          He shuts his eyes and asks, “What did you have in mind?”

          They meet Balthazar soon after. He trails them to the States and finds distributors with ease. Soon Halo goes from grunge to grandeur, becoming the premier drug for rich students, bored housewives, and the wealthy and restless.  The three of them bounce around the countries, evading the Keepers and the enemies they accumulate like frost on a winter morning.

          Alistair tortures Castiel for the ingredients to Halo, only to be crippled by Balthazar, who tracks them to the abandoned hospital. Meg almost rakes her nails down Alistair’s face, a macabre and effective death sentence, but Cas stops her. He’d felt the torture deserved, a retribution in blood. Of course, he’d been a little curious to see if Meg’s poison would work against Alistair’s expiration date, but experience told him it wouldn’t. It would just piss him off further.

 Next is Abaddon, fiery and passionate, attempting to lure Castiel to her side with seduction and decadence and empty promises. When he says no, he’s not interested in watering down his product to double his quantities, nor taking her people on as distributors, she tries to stab him in the chest. This time, Castiel’s irritated and high, and he blasts her through a couple walls.

          And then there’s Claire.

          Castiel quickly skips this, hoping Charlie doesn’t notice. He has little metaphysical control over this scape of his consciousness, but he’s got enough to skid past Claire.

          He knows when her role is over when he makes a reappearance sans Balthazar and Meg. He watches himself wander aimlessly from place to place, dodging Keepers and former rivals alike. Alistair and Abbadon are truly masters of holding a grudge, and the ransom they have on Castiel’s head would have people turning against a saint, let alone Castiel.

Without Castiel manufacturing it, Halo gradually disappears from the market, until the price of any single, rare vials becomes astronomically high.  

          The vision ends when Castiel stops at the front of his would-be new home and sits at the stoop, trench coat dirty and face sallow, but a small flicker of hope in his eyes.  

          He and Charlie crash back into their respective bodies. Charlie is slower to recover from the disorientation.

          “You’re Castiel Krushnic,” she says evenly.  

          “Guilty.”

          She stares at him for a long moment while Castiel does his best to brace himself for the upcoming rejection. It’s a miracle she’s still sitting across from him and not on the phone with the Keepers.

          “Holy crapballs. That was one hell of a trip, my dude. I can’t tell if your life story belongs on HBO or Lifetime.”

          “Uh…”

          “I know you have no clue what either of those are. So that’s your big secret, huh? You’re on the run because you were drug king-pin who had Genghis Khan-like orgies?”

          Cas frowns. “Don’t minimize my crimes, Charlie.”

          “I’m not. That shit was disturbing, Cas. I hated seeing you like that.” She reaches over to take his hand, softening her tone. “But that’s not who you are anymore. It was jarring to witness because that guy hasn’t been you for a long time. You made bad decisions. You hurt people. But give yourself some credit-the work you’ve done for Medical Composition and for medmagic is remarkable.”

          Not knowing how to adjust to this dearth of disgust and condemnation, Cas purses his lips. On a surface level, he knows she’s got a point. He’s made a significant contribution, helped many. But the legions he’s done harm to, the masses whose deaths or addictions he’s facilitated…he’s not sure the scale will ever be balanced in his favor.

          Giving him a look like she knows exactly what he’s thinking and doesn’t approve, Charlie retracts her hand and sighs. “So this is why you pushed Dean away, huh.”

          “Do you see why I had to do it?”

          “No, Cas, I don’t. Dean is a forgiving guy, and he’s also stubborn as hell. You should’ve given him a choice. Given him a chance to fight.”

          He’s not sure whether to be flattered or terrified that after seeing what she did, Charlie still thinks he’s someone worth fighting for. 

          “You can go to him, you know. If Gilda ever did a rewrite on me, I’d be mad, sure, but not as relieved as I’d be to have her back. He won’t understand why he feels so shitty right now, why he hurts. That’s on you to fix.”

          “He deserves better,” Cas insists. Dean, hurting? He might have found Castiel eccentric and amusing at times, but he sincerely doubts his presence had as profound effect on Dean as the latter did on him.

He takes his mug to the sink, emptying it into the sink. “Certainly better than to be associated with me.”

          He washes his mug, and when an unusual amount of time has passed in silence, he turns to Charlie, resigned to defending his actions for the remainder of the night.

          Instead of glaring balefully at his back like he’d expected, Charlie is frantically swiping through a projection of what looks like a map, closing in on a clump of colorful dots. “What the fuck are these knumb-skulls thinking? There’s seven of them. _Seven_! Christ, oh shit.”

          Her worry doesn’t translate, but a sense of foreboding simmers in Castiel’s gut. “What’s going on?”

          Charlie puts two fingers against the transparent map and parts them, largening the image. “Dean texted me that he’s going on a hunt, and I thought I’d check their route while you pouted and found this. Those dots are the motley crew of Slayers Dean works with. Right now, they’re marching into a fucking _hive_ of Ravine. Either they don’t know and they’re about to get slaughtered, or they _do_ know and they’re about to get slaughtered.”

          Castiel’s heart leaps into his throat. “Dean’s not…he’s not with them, is he?”

          She viciously stabs at two dots further back from the rest, green and brown, respectively. “Not yet, but they’re catching up. Why is Sam with him? Those idiots. I have to warn them.”

          The silver dots Cas assumes to be Ravine are thinning, moving to the sides instead of forward.

          Forming a perimeter.

          Bile burns on its way to Castiel’s mouth, and he barely has time to swing around before he’s hacking into the sink. Thankfully, his stomach is empty from a day of brooding and self-loathing.

          “Damn it!” Charlie yells, slamming the phone on the counter. “No answer. I don’t think he has a signal.”

          Cas rinses out his mouth and spits. Of all the things that would bring him out of hiding, his ridiculous one-sided romance with a Slayer was not on the list.

          While Charlie rants about Dean’s ‘dick-driven suicide missions’, Cas slides his trench coat over his shoulders and fishes around in the pockets. He has a brief moment of panic when they come up empty before he remembers this wasn’t the coat he was wearing when they went to the bar.

          The vial is where he left it in the black coat. Colors swirl lazily in the glass, seeming to brighten at Castiel’s touch.

          “Hey, where do you think you’re going?” Charlie demands when he walks past her.

          “I’m going to kill Ravine,” Cas snaps, stuffing his feet into his shoes. The leather will be a mess by the time this is over. Damn Ravine and their proclivity for hiding out in wooded areas.

          “But Dean-”

          “Won’t recognize who’s saving their lives. I’m not letting him die, Charlie.”

          She swallows, eyes wide with apprehension. “But…that much power…there’s no way anyone tracking your magic will miss a flare like that.”

          He straightens his lapels, and because he’s touched by her fear on his behalf, he stops to give her an awkward, one-armed hug. She twists, wrapping her arms around his middle and squeezing.

          “You’re wrong. You are more than worthy of Dean.”

          He gently extricated himself from her octopus hold. “You should leave. I’m going to heavily ward the house in case someone comes snooping while I’m gone.”

          “Please be careful,” Charlie stresses, hoisting her book bag over her shoulder. “You can’t die without understanding why I named my store the Vulcan Vault.”

          “Don’t worry, Charlie,” Cas says. The vial is heavy in his grip. “I have no intention of dying tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Comments? Existential Screams into the Void?  
> Outta curiosity, where are most of you kewl kats from? 
> 
> I prOmiSe to reply to comments quicker this time.


	12. Collision Course

Chapter 12-Collision Course

“Would you quit your whining already?” Bela snaps, shoving Victor into a decrepit bush. “I’ll save the soul-suckers some trouble and kill you myself.” Ahead, Benny keeps pace with Gabe, who’s chasing a pebble and doing a terrifically shitty job of keeping quiet. Sam and Dean flank the group, keeping a few paces back.

          A dark cloud hangs over Dean’s head, his constant companion for the last two days. Sammy’s hospital stay did a hell of a number on him. Right now, there’s nothing he’d like more than to be belly-flopped on his couch, pie on his table, _Doctor Sexy, M.D_ strutting around on his holo, and a beer in his hand. But mucking through the woods in the freezing cold to kill some nasty night crawlers is Dean’s job, and he reminds himself that it’s a job he usually likes.

 There’s no reason for Sam to be out here. Sam hasn’t so much as sullied one of his manicured cuticles since they were teenagers. The idiot should be at Dean’s apartment, recovering, instead of trekking through a dank, dirty crop of trees in the middle of the night.

          “Still time to turn around,” Dean offers, knowing full well it’ll fall on deaf ears, but determined to try anyway. “You can still pretend you’ve got more than three functioning brain cells and beat it back home.”

          “I’m not going anywhere.” Sam flicks a burr off his princess locks with vast distaste. If the situation were different, Dean would be cracking up at his prim and proper brother roughing it up with the big bad Slayers. “Two Ravines is unusual. I want to help.”

          Which, typically, makes absolutely no sense, just like every other evasive garbage Sam’s spouted since he’s woken up. He’s yet to explain how and why the Devourer targeted him for its own personal midday snack. Dean’s been trying to go easy on him; after all, the dude was laid up at Seal Hospital for weeks after nearly getting his insides eaten. Can’t help waking up cantankerous after that.

          Near death aside, Dean’s patience is at an end. If Sam thinks he can just glue himself to Dean after nearly two years of radio silence without a handy interrogation, he’s got another thing coming.

          He’s so busy running over the list of tactics he’ll use to crack Sam that he runs right into Victor’s back.

          “Walk much?” Dean grumbles, but falls quiet at the concentration on Victor’s face. The rest of the group lags behind, also taking notice of Victor’s furrowed brow. Sam is understandably confused, since Dean hadn’t felt the need to mention that Victor is Gifted with Diamond Ears, the ability to pick up sound from miles and miles away and ferret out the most miniscule of nuances. The real pearl of Diamond Ears, in Dean’s humble opinion, is Victor’s ability to know when a voice he’s listening to belongs to a Ravine or any other soulless creature of the night. Apparently there’s an ‘echo’ to their speech that doesn’t exist amongst the soulfully-intact civilization. 

          Judging by the grim set of his frown, he’s not hearing Mozart playing past those trees.

          “We need to turn back,” he says slowly. “I’m not certain, but…” He stops, eyes screwing shut. Dean and Benny exchange a worried glance; Victor’s not the type to turn tail and run. Even Bela’s frowning, raising a hand to rest on Victor’s elbow.

          “Not two. Seven. There’s _seven._ ” Terror, so pure it bowels Dean over, strikes through them when Victor’s eyes reopen. “We-we have to run, we have to-it’s already too late. Let’s go, GO!” he shouts, seizing Bela’s wrist and shoving past Dean, sprinting down the way they came.

          The rest of them exchange wide-eyed looks, uncertain. Sam shifts from foot to foot, glancing around surreptitiously. “Should we follow them? He seemed pretty worked up.”

          “He said seven, not two,” Gabe says, ignoring Sam. “You don’t think he meant seven Ravine?”

          “Christ,” Benny hisses. “Seven? That’s a damn hive. There’s no way.”

          “Can you think of anything else that would send him running like that?” Dean asks, frustration welling. “But seven is unheard of.”

          “We should go,” Sam urges. No one listens.

          “They’re probably gonna portal out at the bottom of the hill, less magical interference to splatter their guts across the Pacific,” Benny guesses.

          “This would be a real good time for you to call your pal Cas down here, Dean,” Gabe says, and there’s a note of excitement in his voice that’s doesn’t synch up with their current situation.

          Dean blinks. “Who?”

Just then, Bela comes struggling back up the path, panting and alone. Dean checks, but Victor’s not coming up in the rear.

          “Where’s Victor?” he demands.

          “I shook him off at the bottom of the trail. I’m not about to leave my boys in the lurch.” Her heavy breathing makes it hard to decipher her words.

          “And he just let you leave?” Benny crosses his arms over his chest. “Tell me you didn’t ditch him in the middle of a portal.”

          “I did what I had to do,” Bela shrugs.

          A rustle draws their attention back to the path. Dean moves in front of Sam, but nothing comes out from behind the gnarled trees. Sam tries to shove Dean aside, but Dean doesn’t budge. If it comes down to it, he’ll shove Sam down the hill and toss him headfirst into a portal.

          “We should find open ground, better visibility,” Benny says. “We’re sitting ducks here.”

          “I second that. I am not in the mood to get sucked down dirty by seven Ravine.”

          “Maybe Victor was wrong,” Dean offers. “If there were seven, wouldn’t they have shown up already?”

          “Yes,” Bela says. “In fact, they would likely be standing beside you right now.”

          A chill sweeps through Dean. Bela at her best could never pull off a smile as unsettlingly malevolent as the one this Bela is wearing.

          Gabe’s the first to take a step back. “Read the room, Hell’s Bell’s. Not the right time for jokes.”

          “Who’s joking, handsome?” Bela grins, wide and feral, and Dean’s heart comes to a shuddering halt. This thing posing as Bela doesn’t have a British accent. Dean thought she was just been out of breath from running, but…idiots. They’re all idiots.

          And now they’re all going to die.

          Right before their eyes, Bela’s skin bubbles, crawling and stretching, transfiguring into a woman Dean’s height, with flowing golden hair, a tattered red gown, and sallow skin that stretches too tight on her bones.

          And, of course, empty eyes as white as ivory bone.

          Recovering from their shock-induced immobility, Dean and his friends erupt into motion. Dean twists his right index ring, and his silver-spiked machete falls heavy in his palm. Gabe empties a clip into her while Benny lifts his hands and chants an Old Realm extinguishment spell.

          Before Dean can swing the machete, the woman disappears, materializing on the opposite side. Gabe’s bullets pop free of her flesh, hitting the dirt in rhythmic thuds.

          “Gentlemen, I really thought we made a connection. Maybe my friends will have better luck. I need them strong, you see, and your types are heaven to taste.”

          Like a scene from a nightmare, the shadows stretching at the base of the surrounding trees darken, pooling into swirling circles.

          Dean counts six circles, quickly rising upwards.

          Behind him, Sam is ashen, hands trembling around his borrowed gun. Dean’s chest constricts. There’s no way he’s getting out of here alive, but he’s not going down until he gets Sammy far, far away.

          Taking care not to overtly move his lips, Dean inclines his head towards his brother and whispers, “At my signal, you run, you hear me? Get to the bottom of the hill.”

          Sam’s stricken expression is too much. Dean hefts the machete and nods at Benny and Gabe, who mirror his gritty resignation. Taking them down isn’t gonna be a picnic for these sons of bitches.  

          The liquid shadows solidify into three women and three men, each as nondescript and pale-eyed as the last. Average men and women who gave up their eternal soul for the foulest form of dark magic, dooming themselves to an existence ruled by hunger for the very things they’d forsaken.

          They’re surrounded on all sides. The best chance Dean has of getting Sam out of here is cutting down at least two on his right.

“Thoughts?” the former Bela asks, tossing her arm around one of the women. She nuzzles into her cheek. “Think you fellas can get along with my friends?”

          “I think you and your friends would look real good at the end of my knife, lady. How about we find out?” Dean replies. Sam grabs his arm tight, as if he can keep Dean from bounding ahead and making good on his promise.

          What was he thinking bringing Sam along? He doesn’t belong here. He’s not the Winchester meant to be cut down in blood and ash.

          “So much fire. Passion,” she purrs. “I can’t wait to have it inside me.”

          While she speaks, Gabe and Benny edge farther apart, closing in on the Ravines closest to them.

          “Yeah? You talk a big game, but here I am and there you are. Let my friends go and it’ll just be you and me, Dean a la carte.”

          She giggles, a disturbingly shrill sound Dean wishes he could scrub from his sensory memory. “Silly boy, I can’t do that. I promised them a meal, to make them big and strong and ready.”

          There must be some signal in her phrasing, because the nearby inanimate Ravines burst into motion, beelining for them. Dean swings his machete, hacking off a chunk of one Ravine’s forearm. Behind him, Sam pumps his nearest target full of Eviscerate. The thing goes down, but Dean knows its only temporary.

          “You remember what I said?” Dean shouts, punching a Ravine Gabe sends reeling towards him in the nose. He brings down his machete hard on the thing’s neck, and is satisfied when blood spurts from the huge hole in its throat. Another swing, and he’s got a severed head and a half-dead Ravine.

          Over the ruckus, Dean can hear Benny chanting, slowing down their attackers as much as he can. It won’t do much, but it’ll give them a fighting chance.

          “I won’t leave you.” Sam takes the dagger Dean whips from his rings and hurls it into the chest of an incoming Ravine. He holds the hilt tight, and Dean has a heart-stopping moment where he thinks the guy is going to grab Sam’s head and _twist_ , but then Sam’s lips are moving, and the thing starts writhing, mouth falling open in a silent scream.

          It falls to the ground, clawing at the dagger, while Sam retreats. Pride swells in Dean’s chest, along with a stab of frustration. He wheelhouse kicks a sucker clamoring for Benny and whirls his machete.

          “You have to go!” Dean yells. “Sammy, I’m not losing you tonight. I’ll be okay, but I need you to _run_!”

          “Dean!” Sam hollers, and Dean thinks he’s going to protest again, but he’s looking behind him.

          Invisible vines, thick and meaty, weave around Dean’s neck, crushing his windpipe. He chokes, grasping at his throat, but his nails only meet skin.

          Fake Bela looms over him, a thunderous scowl on her face.

          “You’re hurting my friends,” she hisses. Her eyes glow. “You worthless rat. I’ll let you live just so I can sip on your soul for eternity.”

          Spots dance along Dean’s vision. He drops to his knees, only vaguely aware that there’s blood coating his fingers. His blood.

          Distantly, Dean registers that Benny and Gabe are on their knees too, heads tilted back. An iridescent mist rises from their open mouths, drifting upwards and into the ready gullets of the Ravines.

          _Please let Sammy have gotten away. Please let him be safe._

The pain pulsating from his raw throat and collarbone dulls with Dean’s acceptance. He’s not as scared as he thought he would be at the imminent reality of his demise.

          The corners of his vision go fuzzy, giving everything a funhouse mirror quality. The former Fake Bela facilitates between grinning manically at Dean and cheering on her friends. Dean wishes she’d redirect her spell to his ears so he could claw them off and leave this world without her shrill pitch ringing around in his skull.

          When fake Bela goes rigid, alarm rippling across her features, Dean thinks he’s hallucinating. The last vestiges of a reaching mind, clinging to fraying strands of hope.

          When she skids away from Dean, fearful, and screams, “ _KOSRA!”_ Dean’s certain he’s cracked.

          “ _KOSRA!_ ” the Ravines echo, the cry rising high amidst the renewed and welcome sounds of wounded screams.

          _Flee._

The spell breaks. Dean slumps to the ground as the strings keeping him up tear, and he thinks he might scream or throw up or both when his torn open throat hits the dirt.

          In the throes of unparalleled pain, Dean still manages to twist onto his side, seeking Sam in the flurry of figures.

          He spots him slumped at the base of a tree a little further back. Dean tries to call his name and nearly blacks out.

          Dean attempts to determine whether Benny or Gabe are still in the game, but his neck staunchly refuses to cooperate in turning his head.

          A dozen feet away, fake Bela flies into the hard pillar of a tree, struggling against invisible ropes. A man in a tan trench coat approaches her slowly, confidently.

          “You shouldn’t exist,” she spits, writhing against her restraints. “You are an abomination, a blight upon nature. Wrong! You’re wrong!”

          Dean can’t hear the guy’s reply, but rage whips across fake Bela’s face. “Kill me. More will rise. She is coming for us. We are claimed, and we will rise upon the alter of her own.”

          Whelp, that’s not shit-your-pants creepy or anything. Dean wonders if his body is keeping him conscious and suffering because someone in the cosmos hates his guts.

          The man plunges his hand into fake Bela’s chest and keeps it there. He’s just starting to hope he’s gonna get to watch the bitch have her organs rearranged when her eyes go from milky to blinding. It looks…it almost looks like there’s light coming out her, as if the sun’s broken in two and taken residence in her sockets. Her scream is shattering, even more unsettling when it stops short. The light intensifies, dazzling as a rising dawn. Dean scrunches his own eyes shut, the afterimage bright behind his lids.

          When Dean reopens them, the woman is slumped on the ground, two crater-like holes in place of her eyes.

          The rest of the Ravines are tossed in assorted mix and match body parts across the path. A blonde man and a short brunette stand over the carcasses, the blonde dabbing at the blood on his sleeve with a handkerchief while the brunette slips her hands into a pair of gloves.

          Leather shoes loom larger and larger in Dean’s sight. A tan trench coat follows when the man crouches beside Dean, and Dean starts back, suddenly terrified that this thing is gonna stick its hand inside Dean’s chest and scorch him from the inside out, too.

          “Oh no,” a gravelly voice whispers. “Oh, Dean.”

          “How do you know my name?” he tries to demand, but a whimper and wet cough are what come out.

          Soft hands burrow into his hair, smoothing it off his forehead. “Sam’s okay. He’s alive. So are your friends.”

          _Oh._ Sammy’s alive. Tension drains out Dean, and he doesn’t even consider that this guy could be lying, because at this point he just wants so desperately to believe.

          Dean is maneuvered onto his back. The air on his exposed throat is agony, and groaning only doubles it.

          “Shh, shhh,” the man murmurs. “Go to sleep, Dean. I’ve got you.”

          Who does this guy think he is? More importantly, why are Dean’s eyes falling shut?

          “I’m so sorry I was late.” The fingers carding through his hair never falter. What fresh hell is this? Why is Dean being comforted by the same person who may or may not root around in his chest cavity when Dean clocks out?

          Whatever. It feels nice, and Dean’s too damn tired to care.

          Fingers brush along his cheekbones, tracing a pattern into the taut skin. A sigil.

          _He’s healing me. Why?_

          He doesn’t get to find out, which is just as well. A soft exhale christens Dean’s newly restored throat and shears away the last of his stubbornly clinging consciousness.

†††††††   ††††††††   †††††††   ††††  †††††  ††††††   †††  †††††

          Castiel was not fast enough.

          He hadn’t bothered pondering the wisdom of summoning Balthazar and Meg when he poured the contents of the vial onto the earth, too rushed, too harried to reach Dean.

          He didn’t hesitate when he portalled to Charlie’s location on Dean and realized where they were. Familiar to every Magi, Gifted, and Mortal alike, Meg and Balthazar had balked.

Understandable, given the setting. As if spun from the coiled horrors of their imaginations, unfurling into a vast atrocity, sprawling like a fungus across the corners of the land. Magic isn’t a tool to be wielded at this place, but a foe to fear, sentient and unreliable.

Still, Castiel ran headlong into the Runoff. The wooded landscape fertile with spilt blood of their peers, and where Dean and his crew foolishly chose to fight their battle.

What he found up the hill wasn’t a battle; it was a mass execution.

Flawed though they may be, no one could find fault with how efficiently Meg and Balthazar reacted. They sprang into action, shredding into the Ravines, and Castiel sought out Dean.

For one stark, endless moment, Castiel thought Dean was dead. He certainly looked it, with the boneless way he fell into the dirt, like a marionette with its strings cut.

Castiel took immense satisfaction in burning that woman inside out.

Aided by Meg and Balthazar, they made quick work of the remaining Ravines. Castiel barely stopped to check Sam’s fluttering pulse before he was propping Dean’s head on his thigh and trying not to raze the Runoff in a fiery blaze at the sight of Dean’s gruesomely shredded throat.

          When Dean finally falls asleep, the glow of Castiel’s sigil fading into tan skin and freckles, Castiel takes his first real breath of the night.

          “Ugh. This is a new suit. Cassie, you wouldn’t happen to have any of your special detergent handy, would you?”

          “Shut up, Bal,” Meg chastises. “He’s having a moment.”

          Castiel is drained. His method of killing Ravine may be more timely, but it comes at the cost of his energy reserves. The rampant unpredictability of magic within the Runoff is undoubtedly speeding along his fatigue.

          All he wants is to take Dean home.

          “I have to go,” Cas says, gently laying Dean’s head onto the ground and getting to his feet. “Someone might have seen my magic flare.”

          “We’re in the Runoff. Odds are, the flare was swallowed up,” Meg points out. “Oh, and you’re welcome, by the way.”

          “Thank you,” Castiel says with genuine gratitude. “I appreciate your help.”

          Meg glances away. “Always been hard to say no to you, Clarence.”

          “Loyalty is indeed a tough tick to shake,” Balthazar agrees. He kicks a severed head. “Are we cleaning up here or may I hasten to my sorely needed bath?”

          “You can leave them. The Runoff is a glorified graveyard anyway. Whatever magic lives here will restore the equilibrium.”

          “Wonderful. I assume this is not the last we’ll be seeing of you, Cassie.”

          “It’s not,” Cas says, startling himself with the truth. “I’ll be calling on you again, and soon.”

          Balthazar beams at him before dashing into the copse of trees.

          Meg remains, restlessly shifting. She gestures at Dean. “Need some help with sleeping beauty here?”

          “I’m going to portal all of the Slayers out of here,” Cas says, and stretches. “It wouldn’t be right to leave them to the mercy of the Runoff.”

          Meg stares at him with an unreadable look. “Right. They…might get hurt.”

          “…Yes?” Why does he feel like he’s admitted to something wrong?

          “Fine by me.” She shrugs, and the strange moment passes. “But there’s no way in hell I’m carrying these dudes to the perimeter. Bean pole over there could crush me under one his thighs.” She jerks her thumb in Sam’s direction. “We’re gonna levitate them to the perimeter, and yes I know it’s not super safe, but it’s what we’ve got.”

          Levitating them does end up being the best option, and with Meg’s help, the four men float to the perimeter with ease. The burly one-Bob? Ben?- might have a bump on his head from where Meg ‘accidentally’ steered him into a tree, but they’re otherwise unscathed.

          There’s still a lingering strain to Meg when she bids Castiel an abrupt goodbye and portals out, and Castiel files it away for later examination.

          He figures he’s done his bit of good karma by not abandoning Dean’s friends, and elects to quietly portal them into the emergency ward of Seal Hospital. He encounters the dilemma of whether to leave Sam and Dean there, too, or perhaps take them to Dean’s home and vanish, but Castiel is weak. He needs Dean close. Even if he’s nothing more than a stranger to him.

          Once again, he sets Sam up on the couch and Dean in his bed. Its an automatic process on his part, and one he’s not interested in studying too closely.

          Although he wants nothing more than to collapse where he’s standing, Castiel reinforces the wardings on the house and calls Charlie to give her an update. He neglects to mention where he took Sam and Dean and is grateful when she doesn’t press him.

          Castiel rummages around in his cabinets until he finds a bottle of his home-brewed _Lucid_ , and takes a hearty, sour swig. He prefers to stay away from artificial energizers when he can, but he needs to check the brothers for any damage and he can’t do it in his current state.

          Thankfully, Sam’s scrapes are superficial, and Cas bandages them up instead of healing them himself. Another magical imprint is the last thing he needs, and he doesn’t think Dean would appreciate Castiel inadvertently making his brother a target.

          The magic Cas funneled into Dean shows, because there’s not so much as a stray scratch on the Slayer. Cas crouches by the bed, brushing his knuckles along the swell of Dean’s cheek. He almost lost him today. It was close. Too close.

          For the first time in his existence, Castiel understands the benefit of knowing someone’s expiration date. He’s never felt the kind of fear he did today. He’s unaccustomed to this kind of uncertainty, this paralyzing terror that at any moment, Dean could be ripped from him. How do people deal with the threat on their loved ones daily? How do they function, knowing the rug could be pulled from under their feet at any moment?

          Castiel is tiptoeing this uncharted mental territory when green eyes flash open, boring into his.

           Surprised and embarrassed, Castiel snatches his hand away. Damn it, he thought he’d have more time. A fumbling excuse is on the tip of his tongue when Dean sits up, clutching his head in both hands.

          He’s staring right at Castiel, brows furrowed in concentration or pain, head squeezed in a vice grip.

          “I-can I help?” Cas offers, extending his hand toward Dean. “You don’t know me, but I mean well. I can heal your headache, if you’d like.”

          Just as he’s about to touch Dean’s forehead, his wrist is caught in an iron grip. Dean’s face is a rictus of emotion: shock, relief, joy.

          But most prominent among them is unadulterated _rage_.

          “You bastard!” Dean roars, and lunges at Castiel.

         

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Belated Merry Christmas to all who celebrate! I'm a few days late with the update thanks to a wicked cold I got from stepping into the 0.5 seconds of rain California's seen this month while freshly showered.  
> It didn't help that this chapter was so hard to get right.   
> As always, comments are opened with welcome arms....that doesn't sound right but its 3 am lolz


	13. Tongues of Lilting Grace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Led Zepp's "Kashmir".

Chapter 13- Tongues of Lilting Grace

Dean’s fist connects with Castiel’s jaw, sending him reeling into the carpet. Dean dives after him, but the initial surprise has worn off, and Castiel manages to roll up and away before Dean can land another blow.

          “What are you doing?” Cas demands, bewildered, dodging a particularly vicious kick aimed at his chest. He bumps into a table, his books and highlighters clattering to the floor.

          “I fucking _remember,_ you UNBELIEVABLE jackass!” Dean bellows, successfully shoving Cas against the wall with no small measure of force. “You tried to _rewrite me_ , Cas? What gives you the right?”

          Disbelief and absurd joy crash over Castiel like a tidal wave. Dean remembers. Dean knows him. But how? It certainly hadn’t seemed like Dean recognized his voice at the Runoff.

          “I can explain-”

          “I don’t want to hear it!” Dean grabs him by the front of his shirt and slams him back against the wall. Cas winces, but doesn’t struggle. He deserves this. Dean is entitled to this.

          “Two days I’ve felt like shit. Two days I’ve spent feeling like someone scraped out my insides with a rusty fork, and I racked my brain, I thought, ‘This weird hollow feeling isn’t right. Snap out of this, Dean, you’re being stupid’.” Sparks shoot from Dean’s livid green gaze. “I thought I was losing my mind, because I’ve seen and done shit that would bring anyone low, but I always knew why I was drowning in liquor, I at least had my _awareness_. And you decide to rip it away, leave me empty and in the dark, because it was easier for you.”

          Throughout Dean’s tirade, Castiel stays quiet, head down and shoulders slumped in defeated acceptance. But he straightens when he hears Dean voice the blasphemy, the outright lie.

          “Easier?” Castiel grinds out. “You think any part of this has been _easy_ for me?”

          Own ire ignited, Castiel twists Dean’s wrists in opposite directions, dislodging his hold, flipping Dean around so he’s the one being pinned against the wall, wrists gripped on either side of his head.

          Dean doesn’t try to fight Castiel’s hold, glaring defiantly. “Why else would you rewrite my memories of you?”

          “Because I refuse to be the end of you, Dean!” Cas hisses. How to make him see reason? “I am not safe.”

          “Newsflash-I nearly died on a hunt today. I should have died, and you saved me. How does that read as unsafe?” Dean rants, plowing on. “And even so, you shouldn’t get to decide my fate for me, Cas! It’s my choice. Whether or not you’re in my life is my choice, and I _choose you_ , you selfish son of a bitch.”

          Castiel doesn’t know whether he should shake sense into Dean or find the highest rooftop and sing for all to hear. He really is a selfish bastard, but not for the reasons Dean thinks.

 This close, Cas can see Dean’s freckles in high definition, can admire the sooty sweep of his lashes against his skin. He’s perfection, even more lovely in his righteous fury.

          A muscle in Dean’s jaw jumps. The heat in his eyes changes, a different burn that floors Cas completely. It’s taunting, daring. Dean sucks his bottom lip beneath his tongue and wets it, gaze never straying from his, and Castiel’s done for.

          He hauls Dean harder against the wall, tightens his fists, and snarls, “Screw it.”

          Then his mouth is on Dean’s and he’s finally, _finally_ taking what he wants. Indulging in the paradise he’s deprived himself of.

          There’s no awkward fumbling, no teeth smashing or chin jostling. This kiss is hot and rough, Dean’s mouth fitting like a missing puzzle piece beneath Castiel’s. Castiel licks and bites Dean’s supple bottom lip, slanting his mouth to get more of his taste. Dean parts his lips, moaning when Castiel’s tongue sweeps into the wet heat of his mouth. Still pinned under Castiel’s hold, Dean goes pliant, and isn’t _that_ a surprise?

          When Dean gasps for air, Cas redirects his attention to the slope of Dean’s throat, covering the surface area with the wet press of his mouth, as if that alone can erase the damage that was done to it.

          “Fuck, Cas,” Dean groans when Cas latches onto a sensitive spot near his pulse and sucks, heedless of the tang of sweat and dust. “I gotta, _ah,_ need to touch you.” He swivels his wrists, testing Castiel’s grip.

          “I rather like you this way,” Cas purrs, licking and nipping a trail from the hollow of Dean’s throat and back up to his jaw. His next words are murmured directly in Dean’s ear. “Immobile and mine for the taking.”

          Dean’s breath hitches. “Kinky.” He hooks his ankle behind Castiel’s. “Table that for me, will you?”

          A hard shove trips Cas over the foot behind his, taking Dean down with him as they crash to the floor. Neither think to untangle from the other, and Cas barely has time to exhale a wheeze from the bad landing before Dean’s throws his leg over his waist and find Castiel’s mouth again, hungry and eager.

          Chuckling in Dean’s mouth, Cas marvels that even lost in passion, Dean still has to get his way.

          Cas slots his own leg between Dean’s knees, giving Dean the friction his rutting hips seek. There’s too many clothes between them, preventing Castiel from spreading Dean bare and becoming intimately familiar with the slopes and panes of his hard, mouthwatering body.

          He contents himself with reaching the hand that’s not currently pillowing Dean’s head and squeezing his jean-clad ass. Dean curses, his rhythm against Castiel’s thigh stuttering.

          “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” Cas murmurs, and worries Dean’s lip between his teeth. “I imagined the noises the you would make, how sweet you taste. How tight you would be around my fingers, my cock.”

          His fingers dig into his ass as hard as they can with the denim barrier, encouraging Dean’s thrusts, guiding them as they become shorter, more desperate. Dean’s head falls to Castiel’s shirt, clutching his arms hard enough to leave marks.

          “Jesus, Cas, shit, keep talking,” Dean pants. It’s probably not good, how much Castiel revels in Dean’s fraying control. His left hand is a little numb from being under Dean’s head, but he wiggles it free and slides it between their bodies, cupping the hard outline straining against Dean’s zipper.

          “I’ll bet you’d look so good spread open and full of my cock, Dean. So sweet, so hot for me.”

          All it takes is a none-too-gentle rub with the heel of his hand against Dean’s front, and the Slayer is hurtling over the edge. “Cas! Holy fuck!” Dean cries, burying his face in Castiel’s shoulder. He shudders, quaking his release in Castiel’s arms.

          Smirking, Castiel reclaims his hands from Dean’s ass and dick and kisses the other man’s sweaty forehead. “Beautiful.”

 Dean rolls onto his back, putting space between them, and stares at the ceiling. Remembering his tendency to discomfit people with his attentions, Cas mimics him, gazing at the familiar galaxy swirling above them. The silence stretches, thick and long enough that doubt sets in. Did he...is Dean upset about what just happened? Is he trying to customize a polite brush-off?

          “That was embarrassing,” Dean finally speaks, and Castiel feels like he’s been hit in the solar plexus. He swallows, hurt and humiliation warring for dominance in his too-tight chest.

          Dean continues, “I can last a lot longer than two minutes. I just-you’re stupid hot, and you’ve got one hell of a talented mouth. Next time, let’s take out the near-death experience adrenaline and I’ll show you a good time.” Dean turns his head, and Cas quickly composes himself into the picture of calm disaffect, hiding his poignant relief.

          “You’re embarrassed you didn’t delay your orgasm longer?” Cas checks, amused.

          Dean’s pink and puffier lips curl into an indulgent smile. “Yup.” He pauses, and adds, “Do I have something else to be embarrassed about?”

          Is that a serious question? Cas thought his praise and hushed encouragements would communicate his message loud and clear, but he guesses not. “Dean, you were wonderful.”

          Twin spots of pink rise high on Dean’s cheek. He rode out a climax against Castiel’s thigh and it’s the compliment that has him blushing. A perplexing man, this one. It makes Cas want to tug him closer and find out what other ways, what other words, can make his Slayer shy.

          “Did you, uh…” Dean gestures at Castiel’s belt. It takes him a minute.

          “Oh! No, no I didn’t, but that’s fine. I wasn’t willing to miss the sight of you falling apart for anything.”

          Dean coughs. “You want me to-”

          “Dean, you nearly died less than two hours ago. You need to get some rest. Don’t worry about me, please. You’ve given me more than I deserve.”

          He senses more than sees Dean roll to his side, facing him. Dean winces, likely feeling the sticky evidence of his release in his pants. Cas doesn’t move, allowing himself to be studied under Dean’s earnest gaze.

          “I’m still pissed at you for rewriting me. Even if it didn’t take.”

          “Duly noted.”

          “Don’t pull a stunt like that again, Cas. If I walk away, it’ll be on my own two feet.”

          Despite Dean’s lingering resentment and the peace he feels lying here next to him, Castiel can’t bring himself to regret rewriting Dean. Sure, believing Dean was out there in the world with no recollection of Cas while he himself was miserable isn’t an experience he’d like to repeat. But it’s a walk in the park compared to what Cas would feel should harm befall Dean because of him.

          But he’s content, the warm weight of lethargy pressing down on, so he only says, “I understand.”

          The admission doesn’t completely flow for Dean, given his huff, but he merely hops to his feet and reaches for Castiel. “I’m gonna go shower. I’d rather not sleep next to the smell of my own blood. Join me?”

          Cas lets Dean pull him to his feet, hovering uncertainly. Maybe the _Lucid_ is overstimulating his imagination, because Cas could swear Dean just implied he’s planning on spending the night with Cas.

          “Uh.” He fumbles when Dean arches a brow at his extended silence. “I’d like that. Yes.”

          The corner of Dean’s mouth twitches. “Lead the way.”

†††††††   ††††††††   †††††††   ††††  †††††  ††††††   †††  †††††

          Dean’s head is still throbbing. The second he’d woken up and met Castiel’s bottomless blue eyes, an anvil had crashed through Dean’s mind, shattering the glass lies Castiel crafted in place of the truth. It hurt like a bitch, but Dean’s fervently glad. Whoever said ignorance is bliss was an asshole who couldn’t be bothered to give a damn.

          This right here is bliss. Cas muttering the spell Sam asked about, the tiles on his huge shower shifting to reveal at least six showerheads. He’s looking anywhere but at Dean, and the shift from growly, pornstar Cas to this nervous wreck is oddly endearing. It helps Dean forget his own reservations about getting naked in a decidedly non-straight setting with a guy. Then again, he just came in his pants embarrassingly quick with nothing more than said guy’s hard thigh and some quality dirty talk. His straight card was already bent and torn in places, and Cas just reduced it to ashes.

          Dean strips quickly, stepping out of his boxers and into the warm spray. He sighs happily, the knots in his shoulders unwinding under the pounding pressure. “Shit, I forgot how nice your shower is. The one I’ve got at home has a knob with opposite directions, and the showerhead barely reaches my neck.”

          Peeking over at Cas, Dean hides his smirk. The man is mute, staring at Dean’s naked body with dark eyes and parted lips. Dean can’t help showing off a little, running his palm over his abs and onto his pecs and delighting in how Castiel’s gaze follows the movement with minute focus.

          “Any day now, buddy.”

          Cas jolts, nearly falling over in his hurry to peel off his pants. When he gets into the shower, he practically plasters himself to the ceramic wall, giving Dean space he did not ask for.

          Well, that just won’t do. Dean takes his elbow and turns him around, ignoring Castiel’s soft gasp in favor of locating the white bar of soap at his elbow. He wets it, working up a small amount of lather, and starts gently cleaning Castiel’s back.

          The stiffness melts from Castiel’s muscles as Dean works the soap over every inch of pale, wet skin. He slides it into the dip at the base of Castiel’s spine, and then to the round globes of his pert ass.

          Cas shivers when Dean goes lower, the soap bar just barely grazing his perineum. “Dean,” he warns. “Don’t start something neither of us have the energy to finish.”

          He finishes soaping Castiel’s thick thighs-and _damn_ if he isn’t looking forward to getting between those-and turns Cas around. Cas is fighting a smile, at odds with his stern tone.

          “Oh, I can finish, don’t you worry,” Dean promises, sliding the bar over Castiel’s right nipple and flicking the pink nub. “But you’re not wrong. It’ll keep till morning.”

          He must have said something right, because Castiel kisses him, wet and hot and filthy. The spoilsport is careful to keep his hips tilted away, but Dean is still flushed and all kinds of bothered when Cas pulls back.

          They take turns washing each other’s hair. It’s very hard for Dean to remember he’s tired when Cas drops to his knees, making a big show of soaping down Dean’s legs. When he looks up at Dean from where he’s kneeling, water sluicing over his face and a mischievous twinkle in his eye, Dean heart twists, painful and tight. He plays it off by leering at Cas and yanking him back up, reprimanding him with a loud smack to his ass.

At some point, Dean starts singing an off-key rendition of _Kashmir,_ and when Castiel chuckles softly and joins him for the second verse, Dean thinks maybe he did die at the Runoff, and this is heaven.

          “I didn’t think you listened to Zepp. In fact, I know you don’t. I distinctly remember you complaining about the loud ‘war-zone music’ I blast while I work out,” Dean says while they’re toweling off. And because they’ve both apparently turned into the first act of a Nicholas Sparks movie, they pat each other dry before wrapping the towels around their waists.

          “I don’t, but you sing it loud and often enough that I’ve memorized that particular song,” Cas says. There’s a pink flush to his chest from the steam, and his wet hair is curling at the temples. Dean wants to eat him alive.

          “That’s…huh. I can try keeping it down.”

          “No, I like it,” Cas hurries to correct. “Not the rest of your music, but _Kashmir_ has grown on me.”

          They pad to Castiel’s bedroom, and Cas hands him a pair of sweats and a worn Hot Wheels T-shirt that Dean spent all of yesterday scouring the apartment for. He considers how it might have found its way into Cas’s drawer and bites down on a grin.

          “I’m gonna go call my crew, make sure everyone’s doing okay,” Dean says. “I’ll be back.”

          “Take your time,” Cas says, picking up the pillows only to put them back in the exact same position. The dork.

          The bedroom door clicks shut behind him, and he navigates the familiar hallway in the dark, rounding the corner to where Sam’s drooling on the couch. Dean checks him over, but Cas did a mighty job patching him up.

          He calls Victor first, confirming that Bela is with him and that they’re both okay. To say Victor’s happy to hear from him would be a massive understatement. Dean nearly hangs up on his friend when his apologies start getting weepy and more flowery. Longer and Victor might’ve whipped out a sonnet or two.  

          Benny is annoyed to be woken up, but then he’s a barrel of questions about how ended up in the hospital, and why he’s still in possession of a soul and not an empty husk at the Runoff. Dean does his best to explain, as shortly and succinctly as possible, that they were rescued by three mysterious people, and that’s all he remembers before he passing out. It’s not a complete bald-faced lie; when Cas and his pals arrived, Dean had no clue who any of them were.

          His last call is to Gabe, and he’s exhausted by that point. Hopefully this goes fast so he can get back into Castiel’s cozy bed and fight for Big Spoon rights (or at least put on a good show of it).

          “Dean-o, still fighting the good fight?” Gabe’s drawl eases the last of Dean’s lingering worry.

          “Fortunately. How you doin’? Need to hit me up for a kidney?”

          “We both know the first organ to fail in this kick-ass bod is gonna be my liver.” There’s a crinkling noise of a hospital gown or a candy wrapper. “I appear to have some blanks I need you to fill about how exactly this piñata kept its sugary insides, though.”

          The vague explanation that appeased Benny apparently is not to Gabe’s liking. “Three mysterious strangers just happened to show up at the Runoff, and they weren’t mutants or dark creatures, but directionally-dyslexic good Samaritans?”

          “Weird, right?”

          “Weird isn’t how I’d describe it,” Gabe muses. “Tell me, did Cas take you and the Eiffel Man Tower home or are you at your apartment right now?”

          Dean freezes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

          “Mhm. Either you’re lying, or he did a hell of a job on that rewrite. Ornery dick saves our asses and flutters off. Typical,” Gabe mutters. “Ooh, the night nurse just went by-you got a get a load of this girl, Dean, I thought I was gonna get a syringe to the nuts. I might be in love-hey, Madame Nurse!”       

          The call drops.

          The staff is gonna conspire to murder the snarky little shit, Dean’s sure of it. The distraction is well-timed, though. Dean doesn’t enjoy lying. Although he’s very, very curious about Gabe’s persistent interest in Cas, and how he seems so sure that it was him who saved them. Gabe’s only knowledge of Cas is that he’s Dean’s friend and a Medical Composer.

          Cas is still awake when Dean enters the dimly lit room, shutting the door behind him. “How did it go?”

          “Obnoxious pains in my ass, the whole lot of them,” Dean replies, sliding beneath the covers with a grateful shiver. “They’re fine. Want to know who to thank for saving their bacon. Although Gabe knows you rewrote me and is convinced you’re the one who swooped in for the rescue. I didn’t tell him the rewrite unraveled, and I don’t know how he leapt to the rest of his conclusions.” Dean wedges his toes under Castiel’s leg, leeching off his heat. “When are you gonna cast the fucking thermostat spell? When my balls have icicles hanging off them?”

          “Your testicles will retract into your body before they ever grow icicles,” Cas says distractedly. “How does Gabe know about the rewrite?”

          “He asked about you earlier and I didn’t know who he was talking about. If you don’t cast it, I will and we both know I’ll end up turning your kitchen faucet into a singing fish or something.”

          “How exactly did you meet Gabe?” Cas asks. His other leg brushes against Dean’s, and Dean hitches his free foot over Castiel’s calf before he can retract it.  

          Dean yawns. “I can give you the dirty on Gabe in the morning. But I don’t want you to worry, okay? He’s a good guy, dipshit tendencies aside.”

          “I trust your judgement,” Cas says, and shifts closer, until he and Dean are sharing the same pillow, the same breath. The room is dark, the only illumination coming from a stray comet or shooting star on Castiel’s telescope ceiling. Dean can trace the shape of Castiel’s lips.

          “Dean,” Cas rumbles, like he can read his mind. “Sleep.”

           “We gonna talk about what’s going on here in the morning?” Dean whispers. He’s got a lot of questions, most of them so chick-flick worthy they’re nearly unutterable. While he doesn’t want to risk spooking Cas and have him shut this down because of more misplaced concern for Dean’s safety, Dean’s also not crazy about the anxiety building in his gut like mineral salt. He needs to know if this was a one-time thing, or if he’s got more nights like these to look forward to. God, he hopes this isn’t a one-time thing.

          Cas exhales, his minty breath brushing Dean’s nose. “Can you turn around?”

          Confused and more than a little unnerved by Cas’s seriousness, Dean acquiesces without comment.

          Cas is on him like white on rice, one arm sliding onto his chest, his hips slotting behind Dean, his legs tangling with his. His mouth is damp against Dean’s neck. “We’ll talk about everything in the morning. I promise you.”

          The prospect has Cas gathering Dean close, until a stray dust mote doesn’t have a hope of getting between them, and the blanket becomes the secondary source of warmth. That’s how Dean falls asleep, the scent of Cas’s hair in his nose and his toned, strong body wrapped around his.

          “’m not the little spoon,” he mumbles in lieu of a goodnight.  “Jus’ o’ you know. You’re the exception.”

          Laughing softly into his hair, Cas says something too quiet to catch, and certainly too late in the awake game for Dean to remember later, but it sure sounds like, “You’re my exception, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *coughs* so uh...guess I'll uh...be updating NEXT YEAR.  
> Yes, I'm that friend, and I'M NOT SORRY, SON.  
> HAPPY NEW YEAR!


	14. Rise All, Rise None

Chapter 14-Rise All, Rise None

Dean stirs to life slowly. The room is pitch black, the insides of the bed warm and inviting compared to the chilly air. Groggily, Dean squints, searching for the source of the disturbance.

          “Sorry, I’m so sorry,” Cas whimpers. The arm lying closest to Dean tenses up. “No, _no_ , Claire, please!”

          There it is.

          Dean props himself up on an elbow, facing Cas and struggling to kick his brain online. It’s too dark to see anything, though, and the quiet, keening noises Cas is making are heart-wrenching.

          Touching the tip of his index finger to the pad of his thumb, praying that his shitty magic doesn’t fizzle out, Dean blows out a breath into the makeshift ring of his fingers.

          Light bugs, a scattered, glowing mass of them, rise in a clumped cloud over their heads. They illuminate Castiel, who’s sweat-soaked and shaking in his sleep.

          “Cas.” Dean cards his fingers through Castiel’s thick mass of dark hair. He smooths his thumb over Castiel’s cheekbone, trying to communicate his presence and quiet whatever demon Cas is wrestling. It must not work, because Cas jerks like he’s been shot and cries, “Let her go! _Claire!_ ”

          Dean straddles Cas, holding him down and practically yelling his name, worry thrumming through him. Eyes brilliant as the sea and reckless as the tides open, glassy and unseeing. Cas snarls, and Dean distantly registers _hot_ and _ouch_ before he’s being flung across the room.

          He slams into the bedroom door hard enough for the wooden pane to splinter.

          Burning heat explodes in Dean’s chest, a compact and neat fist of agony, cooking him from the inside out. He drops to his knees, pawing at the area, but to his horror, the ball _moves,_ scorching down Dean’s sternum, over to his gut.

          Bare feet appear in Dean’s line of sight while he’s folding over, struggling to stay semi-upright while liquid lava churns inside him.

          “C-Cas,” Dean groans. There’s the telltale pop of knees, and then Cas is crouched in front of Dean, his gaze blank and still. A crystalline pool of nothing.

          Fuck. _Cas is still asleep._

          “It took her from me,” Cas says casually, as if Dean’s kidney’s aren’t melting into a fleshy puddle inside him. “I fought it and I lost. She was spectacular when it took her. Like a star.”

          Dean’s fist nails Castiel’s nose.

          He topples over, Dean on top of him, wrestling him to the ground. The blistering sphere of fire vanishes, leaving behind it blissful relief and a residual ache.

          “Wake up!” Dean yells. Blood drips sluggishly from Cas’s nose. Dean’s pretty sure that sucker is broken. Cas is pale as a parchment creature, but he blinks and rumbles, “Dean?”

          Dean sags with relief. “Cas, man, what the actual fuck was that?”

          “What…” Cas is struggling to get his bearings, taking in Dean’s position above him and their location on the carpet. “What happened? What did I do?”

          “You neglected to mention that you have night terrors.” Despite knowing Cas didn’t purposely try and melt him like a candle, Dean’s still agitated and prickly. He helps Cas up, dropping back into bed with a groan. “Should’a figured they’d be as juiced up as everything else you do.”

          “Are you okay?” Cas asks, small and ashamed. “Did I hurt you?”

          Dean prods his sternum and belly. Nothing protests the pressure. “I’m fine. What about you? What was that?”

          Cas sniffs thickly, reminding him that Cas has a freshly broken nose. He tugs Cas to a seat on the mattress, drawing himself upright to inspect the injury. Dean holds Cas’s chin still while he draws the healing symbol at the juncture of his brows.

          His nose resets, only leaving behind dried streaks of blood. Dean wets a towel in the bathroom and cleans it up, all under Castiel’s inscrutable watch.

          “Thank you,” Cas says when Dean retakes a seat opposite him on the bed. “I’m sure I deserved far more than a broken nose.”

          Nothing good comes when Castiel’s voice goes flat and inflectionless like this. “If I wasn’t so shit at using magic, I could have woken you up without having to nail you in the nose.”

          That, at least, pulls a reaction from Cas. “You are entirely blameless in this. You could have done far worse to me, and I would understand.”

          “It wasn’t your fault either, Cas. You were unconscious. You didn’t know what you were doing.”

          “Does that make attacking you okay?” Cas snaps. “Frankly, I don’t know how you can stand to be in the same room as me. I’ve done nothing but cause you pain, time and time again.”

          Dean rubs his temple, suppressing an aggrieved sigh. He’d wanted to wake up to pancakes and crepes and have a frou-frou breakfast with Cas, preferably naked, and with recreational use of the whipped cream. A pipe dream, if Cas’s rapidly darkening mood is anything to go by.

          “I’m going to work-out some of this…energy,” Cas says. “I’ll mute the room so your sleep isn’t disrupted again.”

          He catches Cas’s hand as he’s getting up. “I’m not mad at you. I really like you, Cas. Just…don’t beat yourself up, okay?”

          For a fraction of a minute, Castiel’s expression softens, and Dean catches a glimpse of the shy, unguarded man who’s mesmerized by things like planting tools and swings his arms like a kid when he’s nervous. “I really like you, too.”

          Cas presses his lips to his forehead. “Get some rest.”

          He falls back into bed while Cas mutes the room. Part of him hopes Cas will change his mind and come back to bed after realizing how stupid he’s being. Dean’s a big boy. He’s had his fair share of night terrors. If Cas would just _talk_ to him, maybe he could help him work through his shit.

          Dean snorts. Fancy that. Him, Dean Winchester, the emotionally progressive one in the room.  

          The silence in the room is oppressive. There’s no way Dean’s getting back to sleep, but he’s too lethargic to move. A comet streaks across the starry ceiling, a trail of white misting in its wake.

          Dean considers himself a simple guy. He likes beer, burgers, and killing evil sons-of-bitches. He’s got good friends, and he enjoys what he does. It’s not a career that invites romance, but he’s been diligent about staving off the loneliness. Missouri took him under his wing when he was eighteen and taught him that sometimes, your own company can be more fulfilling than a roomful of people. After Sam and Mary more or less disowned him, being alone had to be enough.

          But Cas, his own company is what’s his undoing. He’s shut Dean down any time he tried to broach the subject, tried to fathom why someone as fantastic as Cas would live in this self-inflicted isolation. Shadows linger around that man, and the best Dean can do is beat them back, but the haunted look in Cas’s eyes never truly fades.

          He sighs, sitting up and scrubbing away the last of his sleep. Last night he went to bed with one side of Cas, and he’s a little worried about which version is working out its ‘energy’ in the other room.

          Dean hooks a right in the hall, popping open the door to the gym. It reminds him of his first-second?- day here, when the stifling waves of magic emanating from the gym woke him up. He’d stood right here and watched Cas split his knuckles beating the stuffing out of a punching bag.

          This time, Cas is shirtless on the mat, weights anchoring his feet as he does crunch after crunch, his abs contracting in a most mouthwatering manner.

          “You should be asleep,” he says, not pausing in his workout.

          Crouching at the end of the mat, Dean pushes off the weights to hold Cas’s feet down himself. “So should you.”

          Time passes, Cas breathing roughly, Dean holding his legs and jealously tracking the droplets of sweat running down the smooth pane of his chest. The stalemate stretches with no end in sight, and Dean’s stomach is pitching a fit, demanding sustenance now that he’s awake and expending effort.

          “My mother hates Mortals,” Dean says conversationally. “She thinks they’re no better than animals. ‘Beasts’, she calls them, and ‘primitive’. If it were up to her, they’d be shipped off to their own island, where they’d inevitable pick each other off until the world was cleansed of them.”

          Cas pauses on the upstroke of his crunch, catching himself on his knees. He’s listening.

          “I don’t know if she’s always been like that, or if it happened after the robbery.”

          That actually gets a head tilt of intrigue, and Dean focuses on Cas when he continues. “I was six when a pair of robbers broke into our house in the middle of the night. My dad, he saw them coming in through the upstairs window and told me to go get Sam-who was a baby at the time- and hide. Mom called the Keepers, but she followed Dad downstairs. I was afraid they’d get hurt while I was scrunched in the closet with Sammy. There was a little hideaway inside the staircase, mostly used for dishware and old crap Mom didn’t have the heart to throw out. I took Sam in there and hid, leaving the door cracked so I could watch for anyone coming our way.”

          Dean takes a breath, and even though it’s been over a decade, the memory of that awful night is fresh in his mind. He can still feel Sam’s weight in his arms, can still remember the terror that Sam would wake up and start crying, giving away their location.  

          A hand covers Dean’s, stilling the tremors. Cas is sitting Indian-style now, and he tugs until Dean’s off his haunches and crossing his legs opposite him.

          “I saw it happen, Cas,” Dean says hoarsely. “I saw my Dad sneak up behind one of them. He didn’t see the bastard behind him, but I did. I tried to say something, but it was too late. He slit my Dad’s throat, nearly fucking decapitated him. The other robber ran at me, but my Mom showed up and howled a _khud_ curse, knocked him and his friend dead. She poured magic into my Dad, trying to heal him. She cried and screamed and grabbed me, pushing my hand next to hers on Dad’s chest. Our magic wasn’t enough. _I_ wasn’t enough. He was long gone by the time the Keepers came.”

          “Dean-”

          “Let me finish.” Dean clears his throat. “The robbers were Mortal. They targeted us because of my Mom’s then-position on some business board that shut them down for exploitation of Magi minors in the workplace. Mom…any sympathy she might have had for Mortals died with my Dad that night. She lobbied _hard_ against them, spent most of my childhood at some conference of another, making a name for herself as an overzealous Magical Rights activist. Currently, she’s the head of the Council of Interspecies Relations, and last I heard she was trying to pass a bill that would prevent Mortals youths from enrolling in Spellcraft schools because of the ‘damaging influence they present to our children’s magical development’.”

          Cas strokes a finger down Dean’s palm, pulling a shiver from him. His expression is earnest. “I’m so sorry about your father, Dean.”

          He shrugs. “It sucks, but I got over it. I didn’t let it twist me into hating an entire species like Mom.”

          “You protect Mortals,” Cas says slowly. “You don’t discriminate when it comes to eliminating a threat. That’s why your family hates your occupation.”

          “Bingo. Sam followed in Mom’s footsteps, and I rebelled.”

          Cas’s grip on his hand tightens. “It’s their loss. You are a sensational man, Dean Winchester, and anyone who is too blind to appreciate you is not worth the trouble.”

          Heat rises to Dean’s cheeks. “’m just a Slayer, Cas. Anyone with opposable thumbs and half a brain could do it.”

          “That’s false,” Cas returns, and the severity of his tone brooks no argument.

          Dean shakes himself off, not letting the melancholy settle into his bones. “Alright, alright, I’m the hottest thing since body glitter. Now, I need coffee, so feel free to join me in the kitchen when you’re done sulking.”

          Thankfully, Cas doesn’t keep Dean waiting long.

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          “I’m sorry, I just don’t remember meeting you,” Sam repeats, understandably exasperated. The revelation that the rewrite held with Sam doesn’t sit well with Cas, but it’s been driving Dean up the wall.

          “This doesn’t make sense. It broke with me, it should’a broken with Sam. Did you do something different with him, add any extra glue?”

          “No. Not to boast, but my rewrites are flawless. I’ve had plenty of practice. Sam is not the anomaly here; you are.”

          “Yeah, yeah, Dean’s a special snowflake. Can you please just fix it, whatever you did? I’ve got a killer migraine and _someone_ shouting into my ear isn’t making it any better.” Sam glares at his brother.

          “Oh boo-hoo, no one told you to tag along to a massacre. It’s your own fault they knocked your screws loose.”

          “God, you are such a jerk!”

          “Bitch!”

          For some inexplicable reason, the name-calling settles the tension between the brothers.

Being an only child seems more and more like a blessing.

          Undoing the rewrite on Sam’s mind is difficult, and it exacerbates the symptoms of Sam’s migraines to the point that Cas orders Dean to fetch three lime colored bottles from the cauldron room. Picking loose the threads he’d tightly stitched across Sam’s memory requires great delicacy and concentration, but he succeeds in freeing the truth from the planted fiction.

          “Is that better?” Cas asks once Sam’s swallowed the contents of the last bottle.

          “Some. What range are you, man? I know its rude to ask, but that rewrite was flawless. I remembered the _texture_ of the fake bed at Seal Hospital.” At least Sam’s reaction is much milder than Dean’s upon discovery that his mind was invaded.

          “I raised you with better manners than that,” Dean barks. “Cas, don’t answer him. Apologize.”

          The younger Winchester appears chagrined, coloring slightly as he pouts at the tabletop. “Sorry, Cas.”

          “It’s not a problem, Sam.” Regardless of the newly restored memories of the Winchester brothers, Castiel has no intention of remaining in this place for much longer. As he sits here, Abaddon and Alistair could be tracing his magic to the Runoff and sending off their bloodhounds. The sooner he leaves this place, the easier it’ll be to lead them away from Sam and Dean.

          Given he’ll be in the wind as it is, there’s no harm in being honest with Sam. “I’m an X-range Magi.” _Who can also see the date of your death inscribed in your soul, but that’s neither here nor there._

          Predictably, Sam is stunned into silence, staring at Cas with what can only be described as flabbergasted disbelief.  

          Grace’s warning trill announces a visitor at the door. As if on autopilot, Dean rises to get it, only to jerk to a halt and wince. “Sorry, I forgot. You wanna come check it out?”

          Hell, he’s playing Russian roulette parsing out all this trust, why stop now? He doesn’t exactly trust Dean, but it’s the closest he’s been to trusting anyone since…ever.

          “You go ahead,” Cas says.

          Dean’s brows hit his hairline. “Really?”

          “Yes.”

          “Are you sure? I’m not that great at using Grace.”

          “Then I suggest you start practicing.”

          Taking a deep breath, Dean meticulously runs through the steps, going so far as to diligently study the information Grace projects beside him. Meanwhile, a furrow has formed between Sam’s brows, and he’s palming the lime medicinal bottle speculatively.

          “What’s up, bitches!” Charlie steamrolls past Dean, only stopping long enough to punch him in the chest. “Glad to see I don’t have any upcoming funerals to attend. Black washes me out, dude, think of my complexion before you try to get yourself eaten.”

          She bounds up to Cas and Sam. “Did you guys already thank Cas for saving your bacon? Or…is there a story you have been told that I need to play along with?” Charlie squints at Cas.

          “No story. I undid the rewrites.”

          “Thank God. I can’t keep up with more than one hierarchy of knowledge.”

          Collapsing on the couch, Charlie digs up a folder from her laptop bag and slaps it next to Cas on the coffee table. “Unfortunately, I come bearing bad news. Banning Plaza is under lockdown right now, meaning Vulcan Vault is temporarily out of business and Magical beings from here to the Midwest are having Grade A meltdowns. Nothing good can happen when Magi and Gifted go loco.”

          The folder is chock-full of bizarre magical incidents within two-hundred miles of their radius. “Seven dead virgins at Lawrence High School, three suicides in Haleem Park, four missing children-Charlie, what is this?”

          “That, my friend, is what’s got everyone atwitter. We’re not stupid. Something dark is brewing. We don’t know who’s behind it or for what, but everyone is on high alert. There are Keepers crawling across public grounds. They’re even setting up a perimeter at the Runoff.”

          “I haven’t heard about any of this,” Dean says.

          “You’ve been busy. Think about it-seven Ravine, working together? That just doesn’t happen. It’s not in their nature to form hives, but something is shifting the scales, playing with us like we’re chess pieces.”

          “Shit, Charlie, are you saying there’s a player out there worse than a hive of Ravine?”

          Charlie brushes back fiery hair, expression somber. “Hell, Dean, I think the thing might be running the game.”

          While Charlie and Dean speak, Cas feels Sam’s gaze burning into him. Not with the morbid curiosity he’d expect, but with a heaviness that belies something deep-set and broiling. Is Sam having a belated response to being rewritten? He hasn’t taken a swing at Cas yet, so he’s faring better than Dean already.

          “What’s your full name?” Sam spits, interrupting whatever Charlie and Dean are discussing. Cas finally meets Sam’s blistering glare. Spiders crawl under the surface of his skin, a sensation Cas has only experienced when…

          But it can’t be.

          Cas prays he’s wrong when he says softly, “You wouldn’t be asking if you didn’t know the answer.”

          The lime bottle shatters in Sam’s hand, spraying shards across the carpet. Charlie springs back while Dean goes for Sam’s bleeding fist, but Castiel does not move.

          Sam stands, towering over him. He shakes off Dean’s hold. “You’re Castiel Krushnic. You created _Halo_.”

          Cas shuts his eyes. He wants to laugh until he throws up, wants to portal into the next state, next _dimension_ , because if Sam knows his name, can utter it with such venom, then there’s only one logical conclusion.

          “Your drug ruined my life,” Sam seethes, confirming Castiel’s fears. He yanks Cas up by his shirt front and shoves him backwards. Cas stumbles, quickly righting himself. He makes no move to defend himself when Sam stalks forward.

          Dean pushes between them, warding off his menacing sibling. “The fuck has gotten into you, Sam? That drug hasn’t been on the market in years, and Cas sure as fuck doesn’t have anything to do with it.”

          Cas tries to maneuver Dean aside, but he won’t budge. “Dean, it’s alright. Let him be.”

          “He’s got you snowed, Dean! A Magi X named ‘Cas’ who specializes in Medical Composition? There isn’t a lot of people who fit the profile. This fucker made a drug that’s killed hundreds of people!”

          “You don’t know that! No one ever got a decent picture of the guy, and you think it’s Cas, just because his Pursuit is Composition and he has a unique range?”

          “I think its Cas because when I was addicted to _Halo_ , strung out and desperate, I spent my time, two _years_ of it, scouring the face of the earth for the monster behind _Halo_.”

          Dean is close enough that Cas can see the muscles of his back tighten. “You were…Jesus, Sammy.”

          Sam doesn’t-maybe can’t-look at his brother, and aims his words at Castiel. “Tell him. Tell him the truth, Krushnic. We both know I’m right.”

          Dean turns to Cas, and it tears Cas in two to see the misplaced faith shining in Dean’s eyes. He’s still in Castiel’s corner, still believes that this is all one big mistake.

          Past them both, Charlie is poised with a sifting pink powder he recognizes from the Vault. Throwing it would disorient Sam and Dean long enough for Cas to get away. A good friend, that Charlie. He discourages her with a small shake of his head.

          Part of him is glad this is happening. Every kindness, every smile Dean has paid Castiel since meeting him has eaten away at Castiel. It was inevitable that Dean would learn he was loyal to the wrong person.

          Squaring his shoulders, Castiel quirks his brow at Sam and says, “Two whole years, huh? If you’d put your mind to it, Sam, I’m sure you could have found me in one.”

           


	15. About the Shadow

Chapter 15-About the Shadow

To his credit, Sam doesn’t immediately go for the kill shot when he lobs the spell at Cas. Likely due to a shortage in time as opposed to compassion, but Cas is an optimist.

          He deflects it quickly, but Sam is determined, spitting out spells at a dizzying speed. It’s impressive. If Castiel were anyone else, he’d probably be horizontal and dismembered already.

          But he is not anyone else, and Sam Winchester is gravely wearing his patience.

          “Sam! Stop it!” Dean shouts. They’re the first words he’s spoken, and Cas is surprised he’s not egging Sam on. There is little suitable in the English language to describe Dean’s expression when Cas confirmed the truth of Sam’s accusation. The shock Cas expected, but it was followed by _suspicion_ , and palpable hurt, the worst yet, was quick to round the bend.

          One of Sam’s spells succeeds in hitting Cas, driving him against the white brick of the fireplace. Books rain down around him. An owl bookmark falls out, losing Castiel’s page in a thick tomb on _Magical Medical Mysteries of the Old Realm._

          Anger blazes through Castiel like a match on a dry summer brush. This is all Sam’s fault. _He_ is the reason Castiel has to abandon his home and go on the run once again. _He_ forsook Dean, left him alone when he needed his family the most. _He_ exposed his secret to the one person whose good opinion he wished to preserve.

          Flames engulf Castiel’s hands.

          Charlie gasps. Sam hesitates, fear cracking through his mask of self-righteous fury.

          “ _Hell_ no,” Dean snaps. He crowds Castiel, who studiously stares over his shoulder. “Hey, look at me. Cas! You are not nuking my brother. Put those away.”

          “Let him, Dean!” Sam says, squaring his shoulders. “I can handle myself.”

          “Oh, shut up,” Charlie snaps. “He’ll barbeque your sorry ass and stir into his fancy Swedish cauldron before your useless brain cells realize they’ve successfully pissed off an X-Range Magi.”

          “Swiss,” Dean and Cas correct at the same time.

          “Huh?”

          “It’s a Swiss cauldron, not Swedish,” Dean says. “Double-walled, whatever that means.”

          Of all the asinine things to recall. Why isn’t Dean angry with him? Why isn’t he joining his brother or unlocking his rings?

          “Castiel,” Dean murmurs. “Can you please stop glaring at my brother? I’m the hotter Winchester, you know, ask anyone.”

          “Don’t be cute,” Cas growls. “Move aside.”

          “I’m good where I am. Think you could water down those things?”

          If he goes under Dean’s arm, he can get around him without doing any damage. Or he could leap onto the mantel over the fireplace, perhaps scale the ceiling and drop directly onto Sam. Rearrange the intestines he worked so diligently to repair.

          “Okay, fine. Have it your way,” Dean replies, and wraps his fingers around each of Castiel’s wrists.

          “Dean!” Sam shouts.

          “There are too many idiots in this room,” Charlie groans.

          The flames vanish, extinguished before Castiel can consciously command them to. “Are you insane?” he yells. He studies Dean’s hands, inspecting each smooth, long finger for burn marks.

          “Well, you weren’t exactly leaving me with a ton of options,” Dean grumbles, submitting willingly to the inspection. “Had to get your attention somehow.”

          Cas finally allows himself to meet Dean’s gaze. He’s floored by the softness there, the worry. Worry for him?

          “Excuse me,” Sam interjects hotly. “Are we forgetting that _this man-_ ”

          “Saved your life?” Dean bursts. He whirls around, stalking toward his brother. “Not once, but twice? Risked his neck for us? Is that what we’re forgetting about this man, Sam?”

          “Dean, you don’t get it!” Sam’s voice cracks, frustration giving way to despair. “He almost ruined my life. If it weren’t for Sarah, I’d be face-down in a ditch somewhere.”

          Cas swallows. One would think he’d be desensitized to venomous accusations and teary supplications by now.

          And who on earth is Sarah?

          “Sammy,” Dean sighs. The tension drains from his shoulders. “Cas didn’t put the drug in your hand. An alcoholic doesn’t beat up the bartender for his problems, and it’s the same here. You can’t go blaming Cas for your choices.”

          “So you’re taking his side?” Sam’s nostrils flare. If Cas knew the boy better, he might suspect he was holding back tears.

          “I’m not-there are no _sides_ , here. Both of you are important to me, and God help me but we’re all sitting our asses down and figuring this out. I’m not gonna risk grilling any more limbs for you, got it?”

          Sam shakes his head and turns to Charlie. “Did you know? About who he was?”

          Charlie squints at Cas, unsure. “Uh…I knew he was an X, but I didn’t learn his identity until recently.”

          At this, Dean swivels and frowns at Cas. Cas is adept enough at reading his housemate to know he’s shelving away this information for a future confrontation. Cas could care less. He’s just glad they might still have a future, argument-laden or not.

          “And you’re perfectly okay with the fact that he’s essentially a felon? That if he weren’t presumed dead, Keepers would be scouring the earth for him?”

          “Yeah, Sam, I am perfectly okay with that fact. Get off your high horse, dude. He’s made mistakes. Who hasn’t?” Charlie scowls at Sam. Cas is touched by her indignation on his behalf.

          The defense she and Dean have put up is more than Cas could have hoped for, but it’s unnecessary. Not when Sam’s right. He’s about to step in and say so when Sam blanches, seizing up.

          “Sam?” Dean says, repeating it more urgently when there’s no response from his ashen brother.

          Noises, high-pitched whines of pain, escape from between Sam’s clenched teeth. He sways, but Dean is quick to steady him.

          “Sammy? What’s wrong?” Dean glances at Cas, frantic. “What’s wrong with him?”

          “The…m-marks,” Sam answers in Castiel’s stead. “R-roll-ah!- roll up my shirt.”

          Charlie beats Dean to it, rucking up Sam’s shirt until most of his torso is bare.

          “Holy shit,” she gasps.

          As if raked by an invisible nail, a long, straight dash carves into Sam’s side. Below it are three similar horizontal cuts, stacked above each other.

          The mark finishes slicing into Sam. The lines fade abruptly, smoothing back into unblemished tan skin. Sam collapses into the cushions with a rough exhale.   

          Dean is the first to react. He pokes the affected area. “What the fuck?”

          “What the holy mother ship was that?” Charlie gapes.

          Cas meets Sam’s hard gaze. He entertains a brief moment where he considers portalling out of the house, away from the mess his life is rapidly descending into and the calamities that seem to be part and parcel with the Winchesters.

          But then Dean looks at him, brows drawn tight, and asks with no small amount of fear, “Cas? Do you know what that was?” Reminding Cas why he won’t run. Can’t run.

          Calamity he may call, but Cas will never be able to turn from Dean.

          “Will you tell him, or shall I?” Cas asks Sam. He crouches to gather his books from the floor, arranging them back on the mantel. The _Magical Medical Mysteries of the Old Realm_ book, he places flat for later organization.

          Later. Hah.

          “It’s a long story,” Sam hedges, yanking his shirt down. “I don’t want to get into it.”

          “Tough shit, Sammy. I’m gonna take a stab and say this story has a chapter on why the Devourer tried to eat you and why you tagged along on a Slaying gig,” Dean says.

          Sam hunches over defensively. “Maybe.”

          “I’m gonna make coffee. Anyone want coffee? I do.” Charlie rises, puttering around Castiel’s kitchen for a few minutes. “Cas, where’s your coffee maker?”

          Without taking his eyes off Sam, Dean says, “He doesn’t have one. You’re gonna have to boil some leaf juice.”

          “Bro,” Charlie whines. “Do you at least have any Lucid stashed away?”

          “I drank the last bottle yesterday,” Cas says apologetically. “The tea is in the upper left cupboard.”

          She sighs in defeat. “Fine.”

          “Talk to me, Sam,” Dean pleads. “You’re killing me here. I need to know what’s going on so I can fix it.”

          “I don’t need you to fix anything, Dean. I’m not a little kid anymore.”

          “No, but you’re still my baby brother, and you’re obviously in over your head. I’m not above sticking your head in a toilet and flushing until you crack.”

          “Save it with the brotherly love crap, okay?” Sam throws his arms in the air. “We haven’t spoken in years, Dean. The last time I saw you, you were calling me Mom’s sheep and mocking my every life choice.”

          Dean gawks. “Are you for real? _I_ was mocking _your_ life choices?”

          Cas and Charlie exchange a glance. Through mutual silent agreement, they slink towards the hallway, giving the brothers the room.

          They collapse on Castiel’s bed. It reminds Cas of the last time Charlie found him sprawled in bed, after he let her convince him to house and heal complete strangers. An omen of change.

          Neither of them is much up for conversation. Charlie drops her head on Castiel’s chest, fiery hair fanned across his neck and pillow. They watch the constellations swirl until Castiel’s exhaustion catches up with him, and he feels himself start to drift.

          “You’re going to leave, aren’t you?” Charlie whispers.

          There’s no point in lying. “Yes.”

          “I wish you didn’t have to.”

          Cas rests his chin on her head. “So do I.”

          He drifts.

 

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          Dean wasn’t a perfect brother.

          He tried. He tried every day, every hour, to not only be a brother and father to Sam, but to be a shoulder for Mary to lean on. It didn’t take long to recognize that Mary didn’t need a shoulder, because Mary never faltered. She took her grief and shaped it, hardened it until she was little more than a machine.

          Sure, it bothered Dean that Mary was only tangentially involved in their lives. The day of Dad’s funeral, Mary didn’t cry. She held her son’s hand tightly and cradled Sam, standing tall and stoic as John’s coffin was lowered into the ground. She took them out for ice cream after, and they sat by a lake, watching the ducks swim by and the sun cast a long shadow over the sparkling water.

          “It’s going to be your job to take care of Sammy now, Dean,” she’d said. “I have to make sure what happened to your Dad doesn’t happen to more Magi. I have a civilization to take care of, and you have one person. Think that’s an even trade?”

          Foolish as he was, Dean thought it was. He hadn’t realized that raising a single person could be harder than rallying millions.

          Sam was Dean’s shadow. When lightning or nightmares scared him, he’d crawl into Dean’s bed and clutch his teddy bear until he fell asleep. He hated vegetables, but if Dean ate them, so did he. Dean couldn’t be afraid of lightning or hate vegetables after that; he aged decades in a few years. Most kids were annoyed to have their younger siblings tagging along with them, but Dean was never sick of Sammy. He was bright and curious, kind and generous. He read too many books and couldn’t draw up the nerve to talk to anyone, let alone make friends.

          Time, and Mary’s influence, eventually changed him. She put that distrustful, hunted glint in his baby brother’s eye. She isolated him from the person who would have done anything to be by his side. For that, and a thousand other crimes, Dean will never forgive her.

          “I don’t want to fight with you, Sam. You portalled into my car when you were injured because you knew you could trust me. Our shit aside, I need you whole and healthy.”

          Sam drops his head in his hands. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Dean. But this is…I’m in over my head, here. I don’t want to drag you into it.”

          Is he an idiot? Doesn’t he comprehend that Dean would happily plunge into the depths of hell if it meant he could pull Sam up in his stead? “How about you let me decide.”

          “You defended Castiel Krushnic over me.”

          “I didn’t defend him over anyone. You were acting like a dick, and he doesn’t deserve that. He’s-we owe him more than we can ever repay. Stop changing the subject.”

          Sam squints, his caginess momentarily replaced with…suspicion? “Dean, is there something going on between you guys?”

          Dean’s gut roils. Figures the first person he’s coming out to currently thinks Dean’s only slightly better than Satan himself. “Might be. We’re…workshopping it. That a problem for you?”

          There’s a single minute, sixty seconds, where Dean imagines Sam saying yes. Where he imagines a future of deep-set resentment and thinly veiled disgust.

          Sam rears back, brows snapping together. “Why would it be a problem for me?”

          “I don’t know! I don’t know where you stand on, you know, this stuff.”

          “Jesus, Dean. Of course its not a problem.” Sam runs his hand through his Rapunzel locks. “I suppose its partially my fault that you don’t know me well enough to know the answer.”

           An air of decisiveness appears to grip Sam. “I want to change that.”

          Hooking his thumb in the collar of his shirt, Sam slides it off in one fluid movement. He tosses it the side and gestures at his chest. “Go ahead.”

          “Um, you showing off your abs? Those are nice gains, but they’ve got nothing on me.”

          “No, use the sheerlight on me.” Sam wrinkles his nose. “And my gains bypassed yours a long time ago, old man.”

          “Why would I use a sheerlight on you?” Dean asks, puzzled. “Cas fixed you up already. You want me to go get him?”

          Sam huffs. “Fine, I’ll do it myself.”

          He starts at his right shoulder, hand flattened into a board as it sweeps across his collarbone and further down. Sheerlights are tricky things to master, and Dean’s glad Sam got fed up and did it himself. There’s no universe on which Dean could have conducted a magical MRI.

          By the time Sam reaches the bottom of his ribs, Dean starts to see it. Black dots, inky and with the translucent consistency of oil, are scattered across Sam’s torso. Viscous and dark and worst of all, familiar.

          “What did you do, Sam?” Dean breathes, aghast. 

          Sam pulls his shirt back on and stares at the floor. “I was having a tough time at school. I fell in with a real bad crowd. They were rich, had access to these crazy drugs. I think by that time Halo had started disappearing from the market, because they were really stingy with their stash. The more I took, the more I was willing to pay. Most of my tuition was sunk into subsidizing my addiction. Then one day, money wasn’t enough for them anymore.”

          Dean’s going to throw up. If this story ends the way he’s terrified it might, if he finds out exactly what his brother must have done for dark magic to root and seed inside him, Dean will most definitely blow chunks.

          “They started asking me bring them stuff. Weird objects and enchantments I paid through the nose for. They kept that up for months, and it was only toward the end that I realized they were having me gather ingredients. They were casting a spell. A big one.”

          “Did you stop? Did you report them to the Keepers?”

          Sam purses his lips. “No. I was too far gone. You have to understand, Dean, that drug…” he laughs once, a bitter sound. “I’ll give it to Cas, he’s one hell of a Composer. I would have sold my soul for Halo. I almost did.”

          The moment of truth. Dean steels himself. “What happened next?”

          “What do you think?” Sam asks helplessly. “Me and six others met at the Runoff-I _know_ , okay, I know- and we cast the spell. The whole time, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was wrong. Past the haze and the craving, I felt the shift in my bones. We were calling on forces that weren’t meant to be disturbed.”

          Sam shrugs a shoulder. “Nothing happened that night. Or the next one. I comforted myself thinking the spell must not have worked. I tried not to fail out of school and keep my addiction from Mom at the same time. I met Sarah.”

          “Hold that thought,” Dean says. He rounds the coffee table and finds the book with the absurdly long title, the one Sam knocked the bookmark out of. He remembers scanning a few lines of the page Cas was on. He could probably find it again.

          He flips a page. “Alright, go on. Who’s Sarah?”

          “Uh, are you taking a reading break?”

          “Oh, this? Nah. ‘m just trying not to strangle you, myself, or all the above so I’m going to sit here and find the page Cas was on, because you dropped the bookmark, and it might have been hard to tell, but he was upset.”

          Sam snorts skeptically. “Upset? He hardly blinked.”

          “I said it was hard to tell. Who’s Sarah?”

          Heaving a sigh like Dean’s just too much for him, Sam nonetheless forges on. “I was tripping hard at a party one night, crying and shaking in the corner.” Sam clears his throat. “I thought I was seeing the men who killed Dad in the crowd. They were dressed in black and faceless. They’d move toward me, get close, and disappear. I was convinced they were going to come up behind me and slit my throat, too.”

          Flip, scan, flip, scan, flip, scan. Where is that stupid page?

          “Sarah found me like that and talked me down. She sat with me until dawn, making sure I drank water and didn’t do anything stupid. She’s beautiful, Dean, inside and out. Halo was dwindling, almost impossible to obtain without selling organs or souls on the black market. I needed to stop, and she gave me the push I needed. She stayed by my side while I detoxed and got help. I owe her my life.”

          Christ, how does Cas read this? Hieroglyphics would be easier to make sense of. “You fell in love with her,” Dean says matter-of-factly.

          The ensuing pause causes Dean to hazard a glance at his brother. He’s staring off into the distance wistfully. “That I did. But her mother wasn’t happy about it. Wasn’t satisfied with Sarah’s progress as a Magi. She showed up one night and ripped Sarah away. Sarah was screaming, Dean. Her mother…she’s not…she’s a monster. She’s something you’d hunt.”

          The page in Dean’s hand crinkles from his grip. “Let me guess. Noble prince Sam galloped to the rescue of his fair filly.”

          “What else was I supposed to do? Wait for her mother to kill her?”

          “She isn’t going to kill her daughter. You and I know better than anyone what overbearing mothers are like.”

          The book is yanked from him and tossed aside. A vein in Dean’s forehead throbs. Sam’s expression is thunderous. “I wasn’t being facetious when I said she’s a monster. She’s not a Ravine or any regular malignant creature I’ve heard of. The brand of evil in that woman is unequivocal.”

          “So you’re saying your mother-in-law is a Creature, capital C? You think she’s planning on hurting Sarah?”

          “I think she’s planning on doing a lot more than that,” Sam whispers. He gestures to his side. “The tallies you saw….they’re Omni marks.”

          The pulse in Dean’s forehead nearly implodes. Bile pushes up his throat. “What number?” he croaks.

          His reply is whispered. “Seven.”

          Seven. There were four marks on Sam’s side. Three more and its curtains for Sam Winchester. Dean’s not certain on the mechanics of Omni marks. He’ll probably ask Cas to explain more, once he’s done beating the shit out of Sam. All he knows is what the rest of the population knows; you show up with Omni marks, you either kill the thing you bartered your soul to, or you wait for it to kill you.

          “Fuck,” Dean says.

          “I know,” Sam says.

          “You idiot. You should have come to me sooner!”

          “I know.” Tired, this time.

          There are more questions Dean needs to ask. He still doesn’t understand the role the Devourer played or why Sam insisted on tagging along to the Ravine hunt. Omni marks don’t appear unless a soul is essentially traded, thrown like a chip on a poker table. All signs point to Sarah’s mother holding the cards, but how would she have gotten a hold of Sam’s soul to begin with? Why place Omni marks on her daughter’s unsuspecting boyfriend in the first place?

          “I need to talk to Cas,” Dean croaks. “Just…sit tight. There’s food in the fridge. You flexed a lot of power, between your pissing contest with Cas and the sheerlight. Go recharge.”

          “Dean…I’m sorry.” Sam looks so morose, kneeling in front of Dean with his head hung low. The resemblance to his younger self, Dean’s former beloved shadow, is strong enough to sting.

          “Hey, don’t worry about it.” Dean claps a hand to Sam’s shoulder, encouraging him to lift his gaze. “Lucky for you, your older, handsomer brother happens to be a kick-ass Slayer. We’ll find your girl, end the Mom, and erase those Omni marks. Sound good?”

          Sam’s smile is tiny, but it reaches his eyes. “Sounds good.”

          “Go eat. That’s an order.” Dean gets to his feet, helping Sam to his. “And no more of this bullshit with Cas. I get where you’re coming from, but being mad at him is a waste of energy. Whatever he may have done, he’s made up for. Or at least, he’s trying to. No one tries as hard as Cas,” Dean says, almost to himself.

          “Yeah, yeah, I won’t attack your boyfriend again.”

          “He’s not my-that’s not-shut up.” Dean flushes.

          Unimpressed, Sam shoots him a knowing smirk and shoos Dean toward the hall. “Send Charlie out, if you can. Owe her an apology, too.”

          “Can do.” Dean’s halfway down the hall when he remembers the book. He should shelve that and try to find the page again later. He doubles back, but stops when he spots Sam bending down, picking the book up off the floor. A slight hesitation, and then he’s dusting it off and carefully placing it on the mantel.

          Dean quickly darts out of sight, a smile curving his lips. Maybe there’s hope for Dean’s former shadow after all.

          If Charlie weren’t gay as Christmas, Dean might be opposed to the way she and Cas are tangled up together in Cas’s bed. As it is, he merely carries her into the living room, deposits her snoring self on the couch, and shuts the door on him and Cas.

          Cas is awake when Dean lays down beside him. He turns on his side and regards Dean with guarded wariness. Dean folds his hands under his head and feels the pulse throbbing in his forehead finally calm. Fuck, he might have to cash in his man card or something, because right here, right now, Dean feels safe. Protected.

          “Castiel Krushnic, huh?” Dean murmurs. “That mean you can teach me to curse in Russian?”

          Dean might be mistaken, but he thinks Cas’s eyes shimmer. “I can teach you in almost any language you want.”

          “Mm.” Dean takes a chance and gently cards his fingers through the unrepentant silky mess that is Cas’s hair. Cas hold very still, staring at Dean with something painfully fragile. “That’ll take a while. Hope you have the time.”

          Cas lifts the corner of his mouth, leaning into Dean’s hand. “I think I could pencil you in.”

          An ocean of unknowns lies between them. Ravine hives, Halo, the mysterious Claire, a ticking time bomb in Sam-there’s no shortage of issues they need to address. Dean’s not sure what the other side of the shore will be like if he survives the trip, if he’ll finally know Cas for who he is. If he can live with what he finds.

          But right here, right now?

          It’s enough to lay beside him and hope.  

         

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are so amazing, it never ceases to blow my mind. <3


	16. Soaring Forfeit

Chapter 16-Soaring Forfeit

Castiel has spent a lot of time thinking about death.

          He’s read textbooks cover-to-cover. He’s explored every major world religion. Unlike his Aldridge peers, he didn’t find graveyards all that spooky or interesting. There’s no intrigue there. A body empty of a soul is a shell, and the only horror to be derived from a shell is morbid curiosity. How it lived, the places it traveled, the people it touched. On weekends, Castiel would comb through the obituaries and find nearby funerals, wakes, memorials, ‘life celebrations’, and he’d wear his one ironed suit, and he’d go pay his respects to a stranger.

          Some watch their loved ones being lowered to the ground with straight shoulders and an unfaltering gaze, so stoic that the uneducated observer might question whether they cared at all. They wouldn’t notice how hands shake where tears don’t fall. How they can’t stay still, not really, not for long, restless with grief that hasn’t settled.

          Some scream and wail, exposing their pain for all to partake and drown in. And others still lower their chin and bid farewell to a soul no longer bound to the earth, hearts heavy but not broken.

          Castiel wonders what John Winchester’s funeral would have been like. Did Mary Winchester stand tall and proud, betraying nothing, beautiful in her wrath? Did she let Dean hold her hand? Or did Dean cradle Sam to his chest, quieting his baby brother’s tears and forsaking his own?

          Castiel is well-versed in death. It shadows him, and he chases it.

          What he doesn’t understand, what is a thousand times more frightful, is what comes before. Living, when at any moment you could be standing on soft soil, watching the only thing that kept your heart beating being lowered into the ground. Castiel was never worried about who he’d leave behind when he died. His parents’ lives would hardly skip a beat. He had no friends, not even a recurring lover.

Now he has Charlie, he has Kevin, Kevin’s patients. He has a man with dazzling green eyes and a brilliant, blinding soul.

          And more than anything, Castiel is afraid of a life where he doesn’t get to keep him.

          “You should go, Dean,” Castiel says, sitting up against the headboard, drawing his knees up. “Take Sam, repair your relationship. Be more wary when you’re on the job. Forget you met me.”

          The tired irritation on Dean’s face when he pushes into an upright position would be enough to make Cas chuckle if he didn’t feel so awfully low. “You already tried that, remember? I almost kicked the bucket. Why’re you so hellbent on shaking me off, huh? If you want to dump me because I’m a no-good prospective alcoholic with half your brains and a fraction of your powers, then just say so.”

          The absurdity of Dean’s sentence punches a laugh from Castiel. “You are worth a million of me, Dean Winchester. Didn’t you hear your brother? I’m sure he read you the full transcript of my crimes.”

          “Not really, no. And I’ll tell you what I told him: everyone is responsible for the choices they make. Sam did something stupid. That’s on him. You apparently mass-manufactured an infamous Magi drug. On you. See how it works?”

          “But-”

          “Stop it, man. If you want to talk about your past because it’ll help you with closure or whatever, then go ahead. But if you’re gonna spew a bunch of bull about how you’re the devil incarnate to try to scare me off, then save it.”

          To Castiel’s immense amusement, Dean is pouting, picking at a loose seam on the bedspread sullenly. Despite his assured little spiel, he’s nervous, and probably a little hurt. This perplexing duality that’s so typical of Dean, facilitating from tough-as-nails to human and vulnerable, burrows into the guilt and bitterness coating his insides like poison. Dean’s giving him forgiveness and understanding-why on earth is Castiel second guessing on his behalf?

 Pushing off his heel, Cas twists, tackling Dean back against the bed, arms braced on either side of his head and knees bracketing his hips. Dean grunts in surprise, and Castiel doesn’t miss how his muscles tense to throw him off for a second before relaxing. Shit. Castiel didn’t think he’d be the type who’d get hot under the collar by displays of brute force, but the raw strength coiled in the body underneath him is just…

          “If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to do things to you that’ll burn Charlie and Sam’s ears right off,” Dean drawls.

          “Is that a threat?” Cas returns. He nips the side of Dean’s mouth, presses his lips to the underside of his sharp jaw. “Or an invitation?”

          “Give it to me straight, Cas,” Dean growls. “Are we done or not? I’m not a fucking yo-yo, dude. You can’t keep doing this to me.”

          Although a joke about giving it to him straight is on the tip of Castiel’s tongue, he swallows it down. Dean is earnest, wary under Castiel’s hands. Afraid of the rejection that’s likely coming. To him, Castiel must seem like the yo-yo, constantly pushing Dean away only to reel him back in, too weak and selfish to resist the other man’s siren call.

          He rests his forehead against Dean’s, shuttering his eyes closed. Dean’s measured breaths carry the lingering scent of this morning’s coffee. “I poison everything I touch, Dean. I’m hunted. I’ve made grave mistakes, mistakes that have ended lives. But I can’t stand the thought of never seeing you again. I just-I can’t stand it.” Cas sits up, seated on Dean’s chest, and turns his head to blink fast at the far wall. The last time his emotions took the reigns and conducted his physical reactions was when he rocked Claire’s dead body in his arms.

          “Hey. _Hey_. Look at me.” Dean shifts, propping his back against the headboard and drawing his knees up, effectively creating a wall at Castiel’s back. Dean cradles Castiel’s chin, coaxing him to meet his gaze. “You’re a good guy, Cas. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think so. I wouldn’t have put Sammy’s life in your hands otherwise. You’re ornery and stubborn and you started a goddamn flower garden in your front yard even though you can’t tell the difference between a rake and a hockey stick. You have banana-shaped fuzzy slippers you constantly lose and you drink more tea than a little old British lady. You work hard to save patients, people who need the medicine you make.”

          Castiel blinks faster.

          “Long story short, stop trying to get rid of me, ‘cause I think I’m gonna stick around for a while.” Dean thumbs Castiel’s bottom lip, steadfast in his focus. “That good with you?”

          “Yes.” His voice cracks around the single syllable, and no sooner has it hit the air than Dean is surging forward. Warm, dry lips slide over Castiel’s, more welcome than rain across a drought-stricken land. The thin railing that’s held Cas back from this, from Dean, disintegrates, and he’s meeting Dean with a starved urgency of his own.

          Large hands sprawl across his spine, clutching Cas close, trying to close a distance that doesn’t exist. Castiel licks into Dean’s mouth, tasting coffee on Dean’s tongue. Dean moans, low and vibrating.

          “We should be a lot more naked, don’t you think?” Dean pants when Cas transfers his attentions to Dean’s face, peppering kisses across his cheekbones, his eyelids, the bridge of his crooked nose.

          “Thought you didn’t want to traumatize your brother and Charlie.” Cas can’t get at Dean’s collarbone because of their tight position, locking them in like two puzzle pieces. He settles for sucking at the hollow of Dean’s throat, marking the unblemished skin for all to see. His mark. His Slayer.

          Dean gasps, bucking against Castiel and almost smashing Castiel’s skull into the headboard. He winds his fingers into Castiel’s hair, blunt nails digging into Castiel’s scalp as he sucks on Dean’s throat, determined to leave a bruise like no other.

          “Jesus, Cas,” Dean groans. “What are you, a vampire? Clothes off, _now_.”

          “So hasty,” Cas purrs. “But if you insist.”

          The rasp of Dean’s zipper is deafening in the confines of the room.

          The green in Dean’s eyes is engulfed by black, bottomless desire as Castiel hooks Dean’s belt loops and tugs his jeans down. Dean cants his hips upwards obligingly, letting Castiel tug the denim past the swell of his ass and halfway down his pale thighs.

          Castiel’s mouth waters at the sight of Dean’s cock tenting his boxers, a tantalizing wet patch at the front of the fabric.

          “Take a picture, why don’t you?” Dean cracks, but there’s a tremor in his voice that brings the simmer in Castiel’s belly to a boil.

          “Another time,” Castiel says, ignoring Dean’s sarcasm. He caresses Dean’s thighs thoughtfully. “Although this is a lovely angle. Spread and supple for me.”

          “Supple? I could demolish bricks with that rock, my friend.”

          This isn’t enough. Cas _needs,_ dangerously so. He can’t feel this, feel Dean, only halfway. He pushes off Dean, smirking when the other man’s nose scrunches in protest, and shucks off his shirt.

          Dean’s appreciation of the view is visceral, raking over Castiel with hunger nearly equal to his own. Nearly, because when Dean copies Castiel and reaches for the hem of his shirt, Castiel’s lungs up and give out at Dean’s bare chest.

          He’s seen it before, when they were sparring or when Dean would forget to take his clothes into the bathroom with him after a shower. He should be accustomed to it.

          But only in Castiel’s imagination was he allowed to do more than admire fleetingly and from afar. Here, where the sun-bronzed expanse of skin and freckles are laid before him like an altar inviting him to worship, Castiel’s fantasies are finally fact.

          Dean’s compass tattoo is bold against the flush spreading over Dean’s chest, and Castiel licks his lips at the thought of getting a taste of those dusky nipples and sinking his teeth into the velvety flesh overlaying Dean’s pectoral. He’d trace the lines of the compass with his tongue. Maybe catch the flavor of the ancient protections spells embedded into the tattoo alongside Dean’s.

          The moment his lips close around Dean’s nipple, Dean’s hands tangle into Castiel’s hair and tug. It stings a little and his scalp will probably tingle for the next few days, but he’d do a lot more to evoke the needy noises Dean is making as Castiel laves his nipples, one and then the other. They stand at attention, pink and begging for more of Castiel’s teeth.

          He moves up for another taste of Dean’s mouth. Dean’s hips buck upward, seeking, but his sweatpants are a most bothersome obstacle.

          Without dragging himself from where he’s sucking on Dean’s tongue, Castiel fumbles for the drawstring of his pants, but he can’t find enough space to wedge a hand between his front and Dean’s. With an aggrieved growl, he hooks two fingers into the waistband and yanks, tearing the fabric with a resonating rip.

          “Did you just rip your pants open?” Dean asks, agape. His lips are bruised from Castiel’s ministrations, but he’s still got the gall to smirk and say, “Knew there was a fucking Neanderthal under all that nerd.”

          Cas kicks off the remains of his sweatpants and wastes no time tugging Dean’s boxers past his calves and off his feet. He takes Dean’s knee and pulls it to the left, toward his other leg, exposing part of Dean’s ass.

          Dean yelps when Castiel lands a blow to the pert globe, and Cas knows its lucky that Dean didn’t reflexively kick Cas into the next dimension, given how the muscles in the thigh he’s holding bunched up at the blow.

          “Do you really think its wise to antagonize me right now?” Cas rearranges Dean until his legs are splayed open, knees drawn. The view of is obscene and the burn is razing through Castiel, demanding he bury himself in the body before him, stake his claim to this miracle and mark it as his own.

          The body happens to be attached to the mouthiest man Castiel’s ever met-an expansive list that includes Balthazar, whose blathering tangents are parallel to none-and Dean’s grinning lewdly from where his head is propped up against the headboard.

          “If you think my dick is gonna wave hello while you stare at it, I think you’ll be in for a surprise,” Dean cracks. “It only does tricks on Sundays. Tickets available online.”

          Dean can’t be allowed to maintain his composure while Castiel is literally unraveling with mindless want. Settling himself comfortably on his stomach, Cas pins Dean’s hips to the mattress with his forearms, and places a single, reverent kiss against the bluish vein running perpendicular to his pelvis.

          Then he buries Dean’s cock in his mouth, not pausing until his nose meets Dean’s pubic hair.

          “Ah-hah-AH, holy _motherfucking_ fuck!” Dean shouts, the hold on Castiel’s hair so tight the skin at his temples is stretched with the pressure. If it wouldn’t expose his teeth, Cas would smile in satisfaction. This is more like it.

          When Cas isn’t licking and sucking Dean’s cock like he needs a throatful of it more than he needs his next breath, Cas’s attention is spent paying homage to Dean’s balls and the high-pitched keening noise Dean makes when Cas is simultaneously thumbing the precome pouring from Dean’s slit over his rigid dick and taking Dean’s balls in his mouth.

          Meanwhile, Castiel is so hard he’s surprised his dick hasn’t just snapped in two. He can’t remember ever being his turned on in his life, and he’s not exactly what your average person would call chaste. He’s had his bed and cock warmed by all kinds of people, but it was never like this with any of them. Don’t get him wrong; Cas enjoys sex, with one partner or with many. But what’s happening with Dean is something that surpasses every experience he’s had, rendering them null and void in comparison.

          Dean bucks, driving his cock into the back of Castiel’s throat and startling Castiel enough that he chokes a bit. “Fuck, Cas, I’m sorry!” Dean says immediately, trying to withdraw, but Castiel’s recovered from the momentary lapse.

          He pulls off Dean with a wet slurp, licking at the engorged head in a promise to return. “It’s okay. I want you to. Fuck my mouth.”

          “Cas.” Its Dean’s turn to choke. “Fuck. You’re going to kill me, you know that?”

          “That would be most unfortunate. I can handle you. Don’t be afraid to be rough,” Cas says, knowing the moment Dean’s worry transforms to the obstinate stubbornness of challenge that he’s hit his target.

          Dean does indeed fuck Castiel’s face like its done him a grievous injury and he’s decided to exact his punishment by way of using Castiel’s mouth like a warm, willing hole and nothing more. He drives upwards in short, hard bursts, grunts and curses punching from his lungs while Castiel does his best not to gag. Its brutish and dirty and Castiel adores it. But then Dean will brush the strands from Castiel’s forehead or massage the nape of Castiel’s neck and he’ll know that Dean’s still seeing him, seeing Castiel, and it’ll hurt and humble him at the same time.

          By the time Dean’s balls are drawing up and his breathing goes erratic and heavy, Castiel’s jaw aches like he’s gone three rounds with the dentist. If this is Dean’s redemption for his self-purported ‘short fuse’ orgasm last time, Castiel has more than absolved him.

          “C-Cas,” Dean moans warningly, reaching for Castiel’s hair and accidentally grabbing his ear, tugging on it. “Not- _shityesfuck-_ ‘m not gonna last m-much, AH!”

          Without depriving himself of the flavor of Dean’s cock, Castiel takes his left thumb, slicked with his spit and Dean’s precome, and runs it over Dean’s perineum, down to the tight pucker he’s purposely neglected.

          He’s reasonably certain Dean has never been with a man, let alone bottomed, so he he’s tried to be careful with him. For this reason and others, he doesn’t do more than circle the ring of nerves and muscle, pressing against Dean’s hole with the weight of promise. In time, he’ll have his fingers, his tongue, and his cock inside this virgin opening, fucking it nice and sloppy and pliant.

          But for now, he just presses, circles, and promises.

          Dean’s hoarse cry washes over Castiel just as the bitter taste of come explodes on his tongue, Dean’s cock pulsing a truly spectacular amount as it empties into Castiel. Cas swallows down every drop.

          When he finally releases Dean’s softening dick, his lips shiny and jaw officially out of business, Dean is boneless (is that a pun? He’ll ask Dean later) beneath him. He’s staring at Cas with reverent awe, his eyes a little wild.

          “Come here,” he orders.

          Cas crawls up Dean’s torso for a bruising kiss, moaning when Dean swipes his tongue over Castiel’s lips, tasting himself. Castiel’s been on the edge since he pulled Dean’s pants off, and when Dean’s hand closes into a tight fist around his straining erection, he gasps brokenly.

          “You’re something else, you know that?” Dean murmurs. He kisses Castiel’s collarbone, digs his thumb into the jut of his hipbone. His fist jerks Castiel off in slow, measured pumps. “I can’t get enough of you. Sucking cock like a porn star, those big blue eyes innocent and wide while your stupid perfect mouth is stretched around the root of my dick.”

          Dean swipes his thumb over Castiel’s leaking slit. Cas buries his face in Dean’s neck. Dean’s hard chest is sweaty like Castiel’s, joining them soundly enough that Castiel is certain Dean can feel the pounding rhythm of his heart to his marrow.

          “Next time, you’re gonna fuck me. You’re going to stick this gorgeous cock in my ass and pound me until I can’t walk for weeks. Think you could do that for me, sweetheart?”

          Thankfully, Dean isn’t expecting any reply to his litany of dirty talk, and continues. “You have no idea how turned on I am when we spar. How many times I pictured shoving down your sweatpants and riding you into the fucking sunset on the mat.”

          Castiel is close, jerking in Dean’s hold and losing the steady rhythm Dean had going. Dean must sense his desperation and decide to put a pin in the cruelty, because he jerks Cas hard and fast.

          The trigger, of all things, is Dean’s elbow. He moves it from where it’s wedged between their chests, allowing Castiel to settle deeper between Dean’s legs. Dean’s spent dick lines up against Castiel’s stomach, his thighs bracketing Castiel, and Castiel is so thoroughly surrounded by Dean Winchester, his release in his stomach, his taste on his tongue, wrapped in his body, that he loses the last of his tenuous control.

          The pleasure is blinding, slamming through Castiel like a tidal wave. Everything goes white for a second, nerves shorting from the sheer sensations warring in him. He spills all over Dean’s fist and stomach, shaking like a leaf from the most powerful orgasm of his colorful life, and barely manages to collapse off to the side and not on Dean’s freshly debauched chest.

          With the last ounce of energy he has, Cas snaps his fingers, and his T-shirt flies from the floor and onto Dean’s belly. He’s too exhausted to extend his reach to the bathroom for a towel and that shirt needed to be washed, anyway.

          He turns on his side, watching Dean wipe off his stomach and ball up the shirt, tossing it back to the carpet. What’s he supposed to do now? Say? He’s never been here before, in a position where he’s desperately afraid of making a mistake and losing someone precious to him.

          Yawning, Dean swings his shoulders in a wide turn, knocking Cas back into the pillows and resting his head against his chest. “That was fun.”

          “Fun?” Cas repeats after taking a beat to ascertain that his voice won’t crack with his profound relief. Leave it to Dean to defuse Castiel’s building mental bomb without conscious effort. “I’m going to have to drink my food through a straw, thank you very much.”

          “Aw, does someone’s jaw hurt? I wouldn’t have thought it was possible, Mr. Fuck My Face.”

          “That’s an awful stage name.”

          “You’re right. Chemical Composer Doctor Geek will definitely rake in the tips. Although…maybe if you were wearing a lab coat…”

          “Here I was under the impression your primary fetish was cowboy paraphernalia.”

          “It’s not a _fetish_ , okay, Sam is a filthy stinking _liar_.”

          Dean shivers. Damn it; at this point not casting the thermostat spell is just plain shameful. Before he can flick the covers up and over them, they rustle at their feet and oh-so-slowly, unfold and slither forward until they settle around them.

          Dean pulls back slightly to beam at Castiel with boyish pride. “Didja see that? I barely had to think about it. I think I’m getting better, maybe.”

          The act itself is elementary, simple enough for any Magi.  They’re only blankets, after all. But the vulnerability lurking behind Dean’s smile pierces through Castiel, because at some time in this man’s life, someone told him his magic wasn’t up to par. Probably at multiple times, if what he’s learned of Mary Winchester fits. Someone made Dean feel small, brushed aside his accomplishments, and they’re just fortunate Castiel wasn’t around to incinerate their sorry hides.

          “That was perfect, Dean. You’re perfect,” Cas murmurs. Dean hides his face, but Cas can feel the smile against his shoulder. A languid feeling of happiness and comfort spread over Castiel like molasses, and it takes him a moment to identify it as contentment. He draws patterns in Dean’s bicep and observes the stars moving to the tune of Dean’s breathing and he realizes that this is what a heart must feel like when it soars.

          “Don’t leave,” Dean whispers, startling Cas. He thought he’d fallen asleep. “Don’t make me chase you.”

          Cas says nothing. He doesn’t point out that every time Cas was put to the test, he was making Dean leave, not the reverse. If Dean can’t tell be now that Castiel won’t-cannot-walk away from him, Cas isn’t about to enlighten him.

          “I’m not going anywhere.” Cas lazily strokes the length of Dean’s curved spine. “Not if I can help it.”

          The lull that follows his promise is not as light as the one preceding it, and Cas wants to snatch back the words that have made tension strain the muscles playing beneath his palm. All he does is cause Dean harm, it seems like. Yet, here Dean is, and Castiel isn’t sure who that reflects worse on.

          “Are you going to help Sam?” he asks, determined to do away with the depressive silence.

          Dean twitches, but doesn’t answer right away. When he does, he’s gruff. “How do you know he needs my help?”

          “I can read the room, Dean,” Cas says dryly. “Sam was defensive because he was struggling between his pride and his pragmatism. He knows you’re the best person to help him, and its killing him to admit it.”

          Snorting, Dean rolls onto his back, contemplating the ceiling with a frown. Castiel instantly misses his warmth. “We’ve got our work cut out for us. But if he goes it alone, the idiot will end up a stain on some scum-crawler’s shoe.”

          Castiel only half-hears everything past the first sentence. “We?”

          “Huh?”

          “ _We’ve_ got our work cut out for us?”

          Dean is embarrassed all of a sudden, picking a loose thread on the blanket to avoid Castiel’s gaze. “I don’t mean-I’m not expecting you to drop everything and come with us on some half-cocked mission.”

          “There’s nothing to drop,” replies the foreign thing growing in Castiel’s chest that’s hijacked the decision-making lobe of Castiel’s brain and is stupidly, stubbornly beholden to this man. “I’d like to help.”

          “Cas, your compositions-”

          “Will be toxic ash and glass when Alastair and Abaddon find me. It’s a matter of days.”

          “Who? Wait. Wait, you can’t be talking about…of course you are. It wouldn’t be my life if you were talking about anyone other than Mortal trafficker Alastair Crane and drug kinpin of the West Josie Abaddon,” Dean groans. “The police would trade their left nut to get their paws on those guys and you’re expecting them for tea and destruction.”

          Cas tenses minutely. Is it finally hitting Dean what Cas has done? Who he is?

          “Well, that makes it a lot easier to drag your ass into Baby with us,” Dean sighs. “I’m not leaving you behind with those two gunning for your head on a platter.”

          “I can take care of myself.” Why is Castiel arguing? Which brain cells are responsible for this bout of idiocy?

          Dean spares him an exasperated glance. “I don’t a fuck if you can lift whole buildings with a thought, Superman. You’re coming with us, end of story.”

          The foreign fiend driven by getting Dean’s praise and fueled by his smile pulses hopefully. Being wanted, cared for...Castiel’s new to it. No one has claimed him with the simplicity and confidence that Dean is showing. As if Castiel is a fixture already, to be taken account of and adjusted for.

          Castiel kisses Dean, communicating the gratefulness and fear of unworthiness and commitment to do better, be better, into the kiss. He will be worthy of Dean Winchester’s loyalty if it is the last thing he does.

          “Hot damn,” Dean croaks. “What was that for?”

          _Believing in me. Coming back for me._

“You have a pretty mouth.”

          Predictably, Dean gets distracted scowling. Cas laughs free and unrestrained, and doesn’t manage to get his arms up in time for Dean to growl, “Show you pretty,” and tackle Castiel back onto the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School is kicking my ass, but I wanted to provide a porny apology and a promise that I'll do my damndest to make sure I don't miss more updates in the faux-studious, coffee-laden, tear-soaked future.


	17. Hell's Daughter

Chapter 17- Hell's Daughter

          The sizzle of the burgers frying on the stovetop are the only two things keeping Sam’s face from meeting the party end of Dean’s fist.

          “You’re so goddamn whiny. Just do it already,” Dean snipes. Cas waves, cautioning Dean to simmer down, but Dean is frustrated. It’s gonna be hard enough as it is taking this Mother from Hell down, but how’s Dean supposed to keep Sam from getting the rest of his death Marks if he won’t cooperate with Cas?

          “I’m not ferrying him down my brain just ‘cause you’ve got a crush on him, Dean! That’s private! My brain is _private_!” When Cas and Dean seem unsympathetic to his cause, he grows more agitated. “They do these kinds of spells with suspects and witnesses on trial!”

          “You’re not on trial,” Cas says patiently.

          “I wasn’t talking to you.”

          “Sam!” Dean barks.

          Cas shakes his head in his direction. Somehow, he’s still sporting his serene, ‘I-do-yoga-to-channel-my-chi’ vibe, despite Sam’s piss-baby behavior. “Let’s all relax and remember we share the same goal. Sam, had I been so inclined, I would have long ripped open every crevice, every corner of your mind until you were laid bare before me. I could have wiped clean any evidence that you ever took a single breath on this earth. If it weren’t for my affection for your brother, your display this morning would most likely have resulted in your slow and painful incineration.”

          Christ. So much for serene.

          Sam appears appropriately cowed, but he still crosses his arms over his chest petulantly.

          “I will only open the memories you allow me to access,” Cas promises. “I will not violate your privacy.”

          While Sam deliberates as if the turd’s argument isn’t about to go belly-up, Dean flips the burgers to find they’ve started to dry and blacken at the edges. Dammit. He’s gonna kill Sam twice.

          “Fine.” Sam shoves his Rapunzel locks off his forehead and sits forward, knees parted and eyes screwed shut. “Meander away.”

          Clearly amused, Cas arches his brow at Dean from over Sam’s shoulder. Dean shrugs. When last he spoke to Sam some two years ago, the boy wasn’t a flapjack short of a stack, but he guesses times loosens the tightest of screws.

          Without much fanfare, Cas presses two fingers to Sam’s forehead.

          Before Charlie went home, claiming she needed ‘a bedful of Gilda and a enough weed to stone the tri-state area’, she’d briefed them on how the process felt and told Sam not to worry. Dean had tried his best not to feel slighted that Cas let Charlie have the intimacy of literally entering his past while Dean was bumbling blindly along, his own memory clean of anything to do with Castiel.

          But there’s no use following that thread; Charlie didn’t do anything wrong, and he’s already had it out with Cas about the rewrite. It’s a done deal.

          After he went outside and hacked a bush into a pile of branches and leaves with his sword…but you know, done deal. He just has to sack up and deal with the fact that Cas has a ways to go until he fully trusts Dean.

          Sam and Cas are blank, jaws hanging slightly loose, prime for the pranking. But Dean only switches off the stove and orders some coffee for Grace, because he’s mature like that. If he hangs two uncooked onion rings around Sam’s ears like hoop earrings, no one needs be the wiser.

          While he eats, he wonders how Benny and the rest of the crew are doing. He’s been so caught up with Cas he hasn’t checked in on them. Guilt churns in his stomach. Once upon a time, Dean was the obsessive workaholic who’d know where and on top of who his crew members were. He rubs his chest, sliding the fabric over his tattoo and probably staining his collar with ketchup.

No one really knows what the compass is supposed to represent. Tons of people have theories, origin stories about the Slayer’s sign. Dean’s no historian, but he likes to think the purpose of the compass is less about guiding Slayers through the thicket of evil that’s creatures like Ravine and more about making sure you don’t lose yourself in the darkness. Dean’s been in some low places. He’s been homeless, hungry, hopeless. And _angry_. God, but was Dean angry. At his Mom, at Sam. At his Dad.

          Then he killed his first creature, a nightlark railroading and eating travelers on a deserted Montana road, and while elbow-deep in the viscous goo oozing from the fatal wounds Dean inflicted on the thing, Dean realized he wasn’t allowed to be angry anymore. If he kept on, if something didn’t change, he’d always be toeing the thin line between Slayer and sadistic killer. You can’t work this job with anger in your gut, because that’s what feeds the kinds of things Dean hunts. It’s what creates them.

          Dean pats the compass, oddly comforted. No matter how bad it’s gotten, he’s never lost himself, never returned to that particular brand of poisonous rage.

          He takes in Castiel’s parted lips and disheveled hair and sends a thank you up to the universe, should anyone be around to hear it, that he made it far enough to meet the X-range pain in his ass currently swimming around his brother’s cranium. Dean will have to find a way to thank him for putting up with all their shit. He’s got some ideas.

          As one, Cas and Sam jerk awake. Sam gasps in air, clutching his chest. Cas promptly stands, picks up his marble coaster, and hurls it into the wall across from the bay window.

          He aims a truly vicious snarl at Sam, right hand curling into a fist, and that’s when Dean springs into action, shaking loose his shock at seeing Castiel’s uncharacteristic outburst.

          “Cas! What’s the matter? What did you see?” Dean puts himself between Cas and Sam, who has gotten to his feet and is regarding Cas with bewildered defiance.

          “Did you know?” Cas asks Sam, voice low and dangerous. “Were you planning on sending him in blind to fight your battles?”

          “Know what?” Sam returns, frustrated. “There was nothing in there that should’ve come as a surprise. Drugs, spell, drying out, Sarah, Sarah’s mother, Devourer.”

          “You don’t know? Of course you don’t. Of COURSE, you don’t!” Cas yells, pacing backwards, and now Dean is really starting to worry. He glances back at Sam, but he only shrugs helplessly.

          “Allow me to enlighten you as to the identity of your opponent, gentlemen,” Cas says. He trails a finger across the books at the top of his mantle, movements calm and at odds with the rigid lines of his body. Neither Dean nor his brother dare breathe a word until Cas finds the book. Dean’s not one to back away from an ugly fight, but even he knows when not to poke the tiger. The way Castiel is wound right now, it wouldn’t end well for any of them.

          Locating the book at last, Cas tugs forth a tomb thick as Dean’s midsection. Licking his finger, he thumbs through it patiently. When he finds the page, he taps the top twice with a satisfied little hum. He turns it to face Dean, and thinking he’s supposed to be reading the tiny print scrawled on the page, Dean inches forward.

          Instead, with a grunt, Cas tears the book clean in half.

          Dean’s only got a fraction of a second to be astounded (and frankly, a little aroused. It was a thick-ass book) before the fluttering pages dissolve, rising in clouds of grey.

          Castiel words come through the rapidly swirling smoke. “The woman you are fighting is ancient. She predates the Schism, to the very origins of magic when Mortals still dwelled the earth in ignorance.”

          The smoke solidifies, clearing into a translucent image of a woman kneeling by a creek. “The Greeks first learned of her existence. Or perhaps their legends brought her into existence. The operations of magic are never as clear-cut as we think they are, as you know. They knew her as Lamia, a woman whose children were stricken dead by Zeus’s wife Hera, supposedly lost to petty jealousy and a thirst for revenge. In truth, Hera killed the children because inside them was the immortal essence. Inside them was magic, straight from Zeus’s veins, and she knew the woman would slaughter her own in order to harvest this magic and ascend to Olympus. Out of misplaced pity, Zeus gave the woman her own sort of magic. A temporary, weak flicker, no more than the lowest shepherd on Olympus. But the woman was clever, and Zeus unwittingly dealt her a winning hand.”

          In the image, the woman places her hand against the still surface of the water. Rich purple threads pulse from the woman’s hand, slithering like thousands of snakes across the creek. In a matter of moments, the creek is gone, evaporated into nothing, and the purple smoke filters up into the woman’s nostrils.

          “With magic inside her, it was only a matter of replenishing it, stripping it from other sources. She became the Earth’s first Siphon. The predecessor of what we know today as…”

          “Ravine,” Dean whispers. 

          “Indeed,” Cas says. The image changes, and Dean nearly yaks when he realizes he’s looking at the woman standing in a field of dead children. “It was difficult to for her to find food, given the scant presence of magic at the time, but she preferred children. The ripe, untethered magic was nectar to her. The Egyptians called her a _‘l’ana’,_ a plague, a curse, and that is the name she chose for herself. Lana, the Siphon, the Child-Eater. The Plague.”

          “Get to the point,” Sam snaps. “What’s this history lesson got to do with us?”

          Dean sighs, positioning himself closer to the brother he plans to beat to a pulp very soon. Cas snaps his fingers, and the woman’s image appears mere inches from where they stand, staring right at them. Sam yelps, Dean may-or-may-not squeak, and Cas continues his tale.

          “When the Schism split the planet, Lana was buried in the debris, caught in the unruly and wild disasters of magic. She disappeared, an immortal without magic to replenish her, and many thought she was a casualty of the Schism. And she _was_ , almost. She was too weak to be perilous to anyone until some _idiot_ in our midst joined in on a spell meant to raise her from her decay. Look familiar, Sam?”

          The woman’s features shift, her hair tumbling in lustrous brown waves down her back, her eyes glowing an ethereal green. Sam makes a strangled noise, which only seems to piss Cas off further.

          “That’s right. This is the creature you helped your suppliers summon, and guess what, Sam? She wasn’t the only thing they brought back.”

          Another shape begins to take form beside the woman. Dean is dreading this, and he wants to tell Cas to dial it back, to cool it with the theatrics, but he’s as captive-if not as nauseated- an audience as Sam. “One of the children Lana came across in her feeding was Serahend, a young princess with the ability to harvest magic from nature and channel it elsewhere. She was a kind princess, known for her healing touch and her sweet disposition, and her country and parents mourned when she was taken. Few knew she became the abyss from which the Siphon Lana would sip, an eternal meal to sustain her, ensure she never went hungry.”

          The lump takes the form of a young woman, roughly Sam’s age, with the same brown hair as Lana, but gorgeous hazel eyes and a round face. Sam chokes out, “Oh God.”

          “That’s right,” Cas growls. “I believe this is your ‘Sarah’, isn’t it? Lana’s surrogate daughter?”

          “No. No, it can’t be. Sarah was a Magi. I would’ve _known_ …it can’t be.”

          Cas brings his hands up and cuts them down in a diagonal sweep. Lana and Sarah disappear. “Wake up, Sam! She appeared right after you cast the spell, didn’t she? She helped you heal from your addiction by channeling her magic into you. Lana probably slapped those Marks on you as revenge for tainting her daughter.”

          “And you were going to send her Dean to drain and toss aside, weren’t you? Anything to get your sweetheart back.”

          “I would never-I had no idea who she was! I’d never risk Dean like that!”

          “Hey! Hey!” Dean shouts. He doesn’t appreciate being talked about like a goddamn helpless maiden, but the morons ignore him in favor of arguing about him.

          “He would follow you into the maw of the beast, fool! You put him at risk just by _existing.”_

“That’s ENOUGH!” Dean bellows. He shoves the two of them apart, a hand on each of their chest. “I am getting real tired of this routine, fellas. Cool it the _fuck_ down, both of you.”

          Sam shoves Dean’s hand off and storms down the hall. Fantastic; nothing better than a sulking Sam. Cas is glaring in the direction he disappeared to, and Dean has to shake his shoulder twice to get his attention to turn to Dean.

          “You can’t keep doing this, man,” Dean says. “He’s my brother. He’s made some real bad calls, but you have to stop attacking him.”

          “Dean, he would have led you to your death.”

          “I get it. Hell, there’s still a good chance I’ll kick it despite knowing who it is I’ve got to gank to get those Marks off Sam. But I need you on our side. Me, you, and him. You can’t keep putting me in the middle.”

          Suddenly, Cas is crushing Dean to him, arms wrapped painfully tight around his shoulders. He speaks into Dean’s hair. “You are not secondary to Sam. Do you understand me? You save yourself first. Please, Dean. _Please_. Save yourself first.”

          It hits Dean like a ton of bricks, the reason Cas is acting insane. “You can’t see my expiration date. That’s why you’re scared.”

          Cas pulls away slightly to meet Dean’s eyes, seeking something Dean already knows isn’t there. “I thought it was a blessing at first, not knowing. I’m not scared, Dean; I’m fucking terrified. You could die at any moment, and I have no way of knowing.”

          “Hate to tell you this, but that’s how it goes for most of us,” Dean says gently. “It shouldn’t affect how we live, not knowing when we’ll die.”

          “I already know Sam isn’t going to die any time soon. That’s my point,” Cas grinds out, irate. “He is secure, but you’re not.”

          “Cas, there are Marks literally counting down to his death. You could be wrong on this.”

          “I’m never wrong.”

          “You never thought you’d meet someone whose expiration date you couldn’t see until you met me.”

          “Yes, but-”

          “There’s always an exception to the rule. I can’t take the chance that Sam will be an exception.”

          Cas opens his mouth to argue, but a change comes over him. He goes stone-still, his expression smoothing into a blank canvas.

          “You’re absolutely right. Sam is your brother, first and foremost. I’ll try to be better with him. Would you mind fetching him for me? I’d like to apologize.”

          Something is rotten in the state of Denmark, Dean knows it. He scrutinizes Cas, but the bastard has an unbeatable poker face.

          “Fine,” Dean says. “Stay put.”

          He finds Sam in the cauldron room, his large frame perched precariously on Castiel’s stepping stool. He’s studying the potion bottles curiously, and Dean feels an odd twist in his gut. It’s hard to reconcile this Sam with the one who was apparently strung out and desperate enough to summon some Old Realm monster for his next fix.

          He takes the bottle from him and puts it back onto the shelf. “Cas wants to apologize.”

          “Screw him.”

          “Sam.”

          “He’s unhinged, Dean. Can’t you see it? That guy is a loaded gun, and he’s bound to go off sooner rather than later.”

          “You’re not the only one who’s dealing with stuff. He’s trying to help you, and you’ve been a prick at every turn. Let him apologize and accept it, or so help me, I’ll drown your surly ass in this cauldron.”

          Sam huffs. “I’ll go apologize to your psycho boyfriend.”

          “He’s not my boyfriend.”

          “Oh, save it.”

          Sam vacates the stool, leaving Dean to study the potions and hope that he’s not going to have to run outside to stop another bloodbath.

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   Thankfully, when Sam finally emerges from the hallway, he’s alone.

          “If you think I’m just gonna forgive-um. What’re you doing?”

          Cas slams back the next potion and clutches the edge of the counter, vision swimming. The taste of rotten eggs is thick on his tongue, fueling the nausea in his belly. Its been there, like an extra-salivary coat, since he suggested Dean send Sam out. Or more honestly, sent Dean inside while Cas dealt with the intrusion he’d felt against the magic he’s got tied up into the house.

          “You need to take Dean and run,” Cas grinds out. He uncorks the nearest bottle and pours the contents down his throat, mumbling the accompanying enchantment right after.

          “Huh? Why?”

          There’s no chance to give Sam a heads-up before glass shatters in the living room, the silver boxes housing his parchment creatures shattering as his automated security guards swirl in the air like an army of buzzing locusts. Sam yelps when the tornado of paper coalesces, fitting together like puzzle pieces until five waxen, generic soldiers stand in the living room.

          “ _Amin_ ,” Cas commands, hoarse from the acidic potions. _Secure._

          As one, the soldiers separate, three exploding back into pieces to flit beneath the lip of the front door while the remaining two disappear into the hall.

          “What the hell were those? What’s going on, Castiel?” Sam exclaims.

          “Go find Dean and portal him out of here. It’s time to go. Take him to a safe location, far away. I’ll find you when it’s over. He’ll try to come for me, you can’t let him. Portal him out immediately.” When Sam continues to stand there, staring dumbly, Cas barks, “Now!”

          Finally, Sam turns on his heel and runs into the hall. Overhead, Grace activates the alarm system, a high-pitched whistle that’s almost silent, but feels like nails raking into his ears and splintering in his skull.

          He bursts around the counter, but its too late-the front door is blasted backwards, exploding on impact. Castiel shields his head and tightens his fist, flames bursting up to his elbow, encasing his arm.

          “Why, hello there, old friend,” comes the nasally whine of a voice Castiel’s dreaded hearing for years. “We meet again.”

          “Alistair.”

          “In the flesh,” he grins, stepping over the threshold and gesturing at himself with a flourish. “Did you miss me?”

          Castiel fervently hopes Sam and Dean are already far, far away from here. _Please Sam, for once in your life, protect your brother._

“How did you find me?” Cas asks idly. Flames lazily grow on his arm.

          “I’m sure you know you weren’t subtle at the Runoff, Castiel. Sloppy, sloppy. I expected better from you.”

          “And you think you can survive fighting me, Alistair?”

          “Well, I did have you trapped and tortured in my cellar for a good while back in the day, didn’t I? You’re not as powerful as you think.”

          The only difference being that this time, Cas has something to live for. He’s not as low, not as self-loathing and eager to be punished for his sins as he was when he let Alistair trap him in his cellar.

          “Do you happen to know today’s date?” Cas inquires, stepping closer to check his math in Alistair’s serpentine gaze. “It’s the seventh, correct?”

          “Are you marking our reunion for your calendar, sweetness?”

          Cas smiles. “I just thought you’d be interested to know you’ve reached your expiration date.”

          Castiel punches twin streams of roiling flames at Alistair, volcanic and fierce. Alistair curses and narrowly ducks, throwing a powder at Castiel’s feet and drawing a sigil in the air. Dishes break, rattling out of the cabinets onto the floor. An invisible blade slices Castiel from top to bottom, the searing pain almost intolerable. But he didn’t ingest those potions for nothing, and he pushes past it, enjoying the first flicker of fear on Alistair’s face when he remains upright.

          “Cute,” Castiel drawls. “Overconfidence has always been your failing, Alistair. And greed. Oh, so greedy. You had to have _Halo_ , didn’t you? You chased down your own destruction.”

          Alistair is a decent Magi, and Castiel has to dodge a colorful array of spells and objects hurled at him. At one point, pebbles hit his legs and transform into thick vines, slithering around him like ropes. Taking advantage of his brief distraction, Alistair tackles him to the ground, straddling Castiel as he manages to deaden the vines into thin weeds.

          The cold tip of a dagger presses into his throat. “And hesitation has always been yours. So much power, so much potential. Wasted on you. You could have ruled the world with _Halo_. But you’re too busy being afraid of what you are, of what you could do. It’s pathetic. I’m doing you a favor, putting you out of your misery. If I had more time, I’d probably give cutting the spell for _Halo_ out of you a try, but as it is, this is where our journey ends.”

          Something wet trickles across his throat. The dagger bites deeper, and Alistair exhales, foul and revolting. “Such a shame.”

          Castiel can stop him. Knock him over, snap his fingers, hell, he could focus and toss him into the fireplace with an aimed thought. He can keep Alistair from slitting his throat, but he hesitates. For a single instant, he thinks that maybe the world _would_ be a better place. Maybe Dean would be better off. Maybe this is righteous.

          But then he remembers that he promised Dean he wouldn’t leave if he could help it. And he can very much help this.

          Alistair’s wrist twists, the blade arcing. He waited too long.

          He braces himself for the fatal cut, but it never comes. Shots ring out, deafeningly loud. Alistair jerks, the dagger clattering to the ground. He grabs his chest and gapes at Castiel, but then a bullet blows out of his forehead, splattering Cas with blood and brain matter. Alistair slumps forward, dead weight pinning Castiel.

          Shoving him off, Castiel lurches to his feet, spitting blood from his mouth. He’s not sure who it belongs to.

          Gabriel stands in the doorway, a gun held aloft. He’s flanked by Meg and Balthazar, and Castiel has the fleeting thought that maybe he’s hallucinating from all the spells.

          “Phew!” Gabe coughs. “This stuff is effective. Pure Eviscerate, right here.”

          “Hey, Clarence.”

          “Cassie!”

          Too exhausted to be bewildered, Cas takes stock of his kitchen and grimaces. It’s a mess. No doubt he’s got the remains of parchment creatures peppering the rest of the house somewhere, too.

          When he spots the shards of his Debussy mug on the floor, a casualty of the fight, Cas blinks back inexplicable tears.

          “Hey, you okay?” Gabe queries, concerned. He creeps closer. “You’re not looking so hot.”

          “Buckets of blood and this awful side-lighting aren’t good for anyone’s hotness,” Balthazar says.

          A gloved hand takes his own, holding it tight. Meg doesn’t say anything, just squeezes his hand.

          “I suppose you found me the same way he did,” Cas says tiredly.

          “Actually, we followed him to you. He’s like a bloodhound, that freak,” Balthazar says. “We ran into this peculiar little man during our endeavors to locate you.”

          “I’ve been called worse,” Gabe says cheerfully.

          Cas studied his savior, the parts of the incomplete picture he’s been drawing of him finally coming together. “You went to Aldridge. You’re Gabriel Revlin.”

          “On the nose. Have to say, I was a titch miffed when you didn’t recognize me right off the bat because, I mean…have you seen this face? It’s unforgettable.”

          The memory trip with Charlie is still fresh in his mind. He can clearly recall Gabe being his shadow for years, keeping him from drowning in his vomit or casually redirecting a customer when they came knocking on his door while he was in a particularly bad place.

          “You took care of me, but I never knew you.”

          Gabe shifts, quirking his lips in a wan smile. “Call me your guardian angel.”

          “While I am truly touched by this reunion, I think we should probably blow this joint,” Meg interjects. “Alistair can’t have been the only hound sniffing after Cas.”

          “Yes, and this time, we’re coming with you whether or not you like it, Cassie.” Balthazar crosses his arms, daring Cas to take issue with his proclamation. “Where to?”

          He supposes its moot to worry about having Meg and Balthazar causing him trouble. “Can you follow Dean’s essence?”

          Balthazar sniffs. “Can I follow Dean’s essence. What do you take me for? Come now, Meg. Let’s find Castiel’s pets.”

          With a last squeeze of his hand, Meg hooks her arm through Balthazar’s. The two disappear, and Cas spares a thought for the heart attack the Winchester’s will suffer if those two track them before Cas does.

          “Why?” Cas asks. He pushes the fragments of his mug with the toe of his shoe.

          “Why what?”

          “Why would you protect me? I didn’t know you. I was hardly worthy of it. Why were you looking for me now?”

          Gabe sighs, tucking the gun into his waistband. He chews his lip and regards Cas with a weary fondness. “We went to Aldridge for more than a decade, Cas. Before we hit our teens, you were a good kid. You did your homework on time, you were the nicest kid in any class. I remember this time Inias spent his money buying shoelaces and couldn’t buy lunch, so you gave him yours. He didn’t want to take your lunch, but you lied and told him you had more food in your locker. I know you lied, because I followed you to your locker and you just sat on the ground and read until the next class started.”

          “Inias died less than two years after that,” Cas says dully. “I don’t see why that incident was relevant.”

          “I know you don’t,” Gabe says simply. “That’s why I stuck around.”

          Nothing he’s saying is making much sense to Cas, but he’s got enough to discern that Gabe means no harm and has some misplaced sense of responsibility for Castiel. When he feels less like shattering beside his Debussy mug, perhaps he’ll delve into the matter further.

          “I suppose you’d like to come, too,” Cas mutters.

          “Oh Cas, I never thought you’d ask.” Gabe flutters his lashes. “Do you need help tidying up in here, or would you prefer I find Dean-o before he tries to decapitate your pals?”

          “I can take care of this alone. And…thank you. For saving me.”

          A new emotion flashes across Gabe’s gaze. “Anytime, compadre.”

          He vanishes. Cas is sorely tempted to nap on his couch, but he forces himself to reset Grace and go through his house to make sure everything is more or less intact. He waves his hand at the doorway, and it bricks over quickly, sealing the only entrance. Despite the fact that the house has been compromised, Cas isn’t ready to completely abandon hope that maybe someday he’ll be able to come back to it. In the meantime, Grace’s automatic security and the vestiges of his magic should keep it safe.

          Cas portals to Dean. His magic is so familiar to Castiel that it takes no effort to find him. He lands in a hotel room, where Dean is pacing the floor and Sam is speaking to Gabe in hushed tones. Meg and Balthazar are propped against the wall, watching everyone suspiciously.

          Everyone falls quiet when Cas appears. Dean stops pacing, crossing the room in two short strides. He immediately runs his hands down Castiel’s cheeks, his chest, and it takes Cas a beat to realize he’s checking for the source of the bleeding.

          “It’s not my blood,” he says.

          Dean stops. He drops his hands, and Cas moves to hug him, ready to settle in Dean’s arms and forget the aching hole caused by leaving the only home he’s ever known.

          But Dean skids back, out of Castiel’s reach. His eyes are hard and flat, colder than Cas has ever seen them. Ice trickles down his veins. What did he do?

          Spinning around without a single word uttered throughout, Dean storms out. The door slams shut behind him.

          “So,” Gabe says after a long, awkward pause. “Who’s getting the bed?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have the rest of this fic plotted out, and despite only being able to write when I visit my parents lately, I will endeavor to have it written and posted in a timely manner. In the meantime, comments are the life-blood of my sanity.   
> Also, a long overdue thank you to [InfernalMachinae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InfernalMachinae/pseuds/InfernalMachinae) for catching any typos and inconsistencies my nearly comatose self doesn't catch. You're seriously awesome.   
> Alrighty kiddos, leave me your thoughts, and when next I see you, I shall be 21 and my life will not have changed at all.


	18. Fear Me Twice

Chapter 18-Fear Me Twice   


“Are you sure putting them all in a room together is a good idea?” Sam asks uncertainly, watching Gabriel, Meg, and Balthazar disappear around the bend of the hall. They’ve been getting along like oil and water since portalling to this ramshackle motel, but frankly, Cas doesn’t trust Meg and Balthazar to be alone together without getting up to anything nefarious, and Gabe just seems like the kind of person who needs to be supervised.

          “No,” Cas answers. “But it’ll have to do.”

          Cas bought the room a few doors down from Sam, but he feels odd about leaving the boy alone. He’s an adult, and heavens knows there hasn’t been much love lost between him and Castiel since he woke up from his Devourer episode. But he’s Dean’s family, and there are Marks etched onto his bones counting down to his death. While Cas is still confident that Sam Winchester won’t be dying anytime soon, Dean’s earlier words are under his skin.

          _There’s always an exception to the rule._

Not to mention that if he’s alone right now, he may very well do something insane, like portal to wherever Dean went and drag him home. He knows he made a mistake excluding Dean yet again, but what was he supposed to do? Unlike basically everyone else Castiel has ever met, Dean isn’t afraid of Cas, but afraid _for_ him. It warms Cas to the core, but at times like this, when he’s thrown Dean’s worry in his face, he wants to remind Dean who he is. That the last man like him broke the Earth. Worrying about him, for lack of a humbler metaphor, is like fretting over the Sun’s rotation.

“Do you mind if remain here for a bit? I’d like to discuss strategy with you.”

          Sam shoots him a bewildered glance. He lifts a shoulder in a careless shrug. “I guess.”

          Cas shuts the door and walks past Sam. The motel bed creaks under his weight. Kicking off his shoes, he sits upright and criss-crosses his legs. He may be resigned to voluntarily spending time in Sam’s company, but he’s going to be comfortable while he does it.

          Sam mimics him, perching on the opposite side of the bed and folding his arms over his chest. They stare at one another. Not for the first time, Cas wonders how the same qualities of stubbornness and prickliness he adores in Dean can grate on him so much with Sam. To be fair, aside from Charlie, he hadn’t spent much time in the company of others before Dean came along. Sam probably sees him as the ornery, unpredictable ass.

“So strategy,” Sam prompts.

“Right.” Cas rearranges himself on the bed and unfurls his hand, exposing his palm and concentrating-

“Hey!” Sam exclaims, leaping backwards. “What do you think you’re doing with those hands?”

It’s impossible to keep Castiel’s smirk at bay. “Don’t worry, these hands are reserved solely for the other Winchester.”

Sam’s eyebrows disappear into his lengthy hair. “Did you just…make a sex joke?”

“I believe so.”

“So you do have a sense of humor somewhere beneath those layers of intimidation and assholery.”

Cas doesn’t grace that with a response. He snaps his fingers, unfolding a glowing map over the ratty bedspread. He taps on the ridged surface twice, and it zooms in on their location.

“We have to kill Lana to rid you of your Marks,” Cas starts.

“And rescue Sarah.”

“Uh-huh. Sam, you’re an educated man. Do you know the theological significance of the number seven?”

Oddly, its as if Castiel has bestowed upon him a compliment of the highest caliber. Sam straightens, a furrow of concentration instead of contempt gracing his forehead. “It’s believed God created the universe in seven days, Islam believes there are seven Heavens, and seven gates to Hell. According to numerologists, seven signifies creation. Seven deadly sins. The Buddha took seven strides, the Menorah has seven sticks…would you like me to continue?”

“I think you’ve covered it quite concisely.”

Sam beams. Childish excitement looks better on Sam than resentment. Something almost like fondness blooms in Castiel’s chest. Maybe he’ll hold off on strangling the young man.

“The reason I bring it up is because I think Lana is performing a spell. An elaborate, terrible spell, and I need to know what her end goal is.”

“What makes you say that?”

Cas snaps his fingers, and although Sam flinches, he doesn’t jump fifty yards like the last time.

A timeline appears over the map, set from the moment Dean showed up at his door to today. Cas draws the first tick on the empty line stretching between the two dates.

“Soon after your brother brought you into my care, we learned that twenty-two healthy adults had died from complete cardiac necrosis.” Cas scrawls the number into the air with his index finger, leaving it hovering in glowing gold below the tick mark. “There were seven Ravine in the ambush at the Runoff.”

“Seven of us cast the spell at the Runoff. The one that conjured her,” Sam says, shame coloring his cheeks. “You might need to extend the timeline.”

Interesting. Cas absently draws in the new date, feeling like he’s forgetting something. The other sevens he can think of aren’t relevant. Or are they? Spells are never black and white. Any outlying element can change the entire nature of the spell; its what makes them so tricky to effectively cast.

Just to be safe, he writes, ‘Dean’s rings’ and ‘Post-Banning’ off to the side.

Preempting Sam, he says, “Dean wears seven rings, and it’s been seven years since I swore off my old life and moved to Banning District. I don’t know if it matters, but I thought I’d put it in.”

“Better safe than sorry.” Sam nods sagely.

Cas quirks a smile. “Indeed.”

“Seven Omni Marks.” Sam swallows and glances away. “Can’t forget that.”

There’s no proper place to place that, either (perhaps a graph or a chart would have served the cause better), but Cas writes it above the whole thing, like a title. Isn’t it? The whole purpose of this venture is to barter for Sam’s soul before its due.

“You’re going to be okay, Sam,” Cas says after a pause. “You will not be felled by those Omni Marks.”

“C’mon, Castiel. At least do me the courtesy of being honest. We both know this is a long shot.”

“That may be, but…call it intuition, but I think you’ll make it out of this intact.” Cas can’t hint any more without outright spelling it out for him.

          Sam peers at him curiously. “You’re a weird dude, anyone ever tell you that?”

          Dryly, “A few.”

          “Hmm.”

          Wanting to get through this so he can go to his room and sulk in peace, Cas folds the map and the timeline into neat squares, seated demurely on each of his palms. He holds them out to Sam and makes a guess. “Your assignment is to find a link between these events and come up with possible spells she could be working.”

          His guess pays off. Sam’s sullen demeanor instantly brightens at his ‘assignment’, and he’s reaching for the map and timeline before Cas has finished his sentence.

          “You got it. I’ll work all night.”

          It’s over. Thank goodness; he’s about tapped out his people battery. Cas clamors to his feet and picks at his shirt. The right sleeve is matted and sticking to his skin with what Castiel can only assume is Alistair’s blood. Lovely. He gets to experience a motel shower once again. At least this time he’s not washing off his own blood.

          He’s turning to the door when Sam calls, tentative, “Cas?”

          What now? Cas turns slightly, trying not to pick at the crusted flecks on his shoulder.

          “Thank you. I do appreciate your help, even if I haven’t shown it very well,” Sam says. “I think I can understand what Dean sees in you.”

          Shocked, Cas can only blink, robbed of his normal faculties. The most he expected from Sam was tolerance. But thanks? From someone whose life was almost destroyed by Castiel’s poisonous product?

          “You don’t need to thank me,” Cas replies, low. “It’s the least I can do.”

          The look of exasperation Sam levels at him is eerily identical to Dean’s. “I don’t want to rehash this, because I’m sure Dean had the same talk with you. Free will means having choices. I had a choice, and I chose wrong. So did you. Don’t take any more blame onto yourself than you already carry, Castiel.”

          A blonde teenager with tired, defensive eyes and a dagger wit flashes through Castiel’s mind. If he were to acquit himself from all other crimes, the injustice of Claire Novak would still be life sentence on his soul. Still, he appreciates Sam’s gesture.

          “Your brother is wise, every now and then.”

          “Don’t tell him. His heads gigantic enough as is.”

          Cas chuckles, but it rings hollow in his chest. He hasn’t let himself entertain thoughts of where Dean might be spending his time, but it creeps up on him, insidious and painful enough to steal the air from his lungs.

          He could have found solace in the arms of any stranger at a bar tonight. No one would say no to a face like Dean’s.

          _He’s just now exploring the other side of his sexuality. What if he decides he’d rather explore it with another man?_

          The thought anyone else touching Dean, hearing the sounds he makes, mapping his body…Red-hot rages washes the world in white for the briefest of seconds.

          The long mirror hanging outside the wardrobe shatters. The shards of glass rise and aim, like hundreds of suspended bullets, and fly into the wall as one.

          To his credit, Sam merely purses his lips and points at Castiel’s hands. “You’re on fire again.”

          Oops. He extinguishes himself.

          “Look, before you start defacing more private property…I think Dean’s just mad. Once he cools off, he’ll be back and it’ll have blown over.”

          “He didn’t stay to talk about it,” Cas points out, then wonders why he’s bothering to solicit relationship advice from the fellow whose romantic prospect turned out to be an ancient princess and intermittent soul-smoothie.

          Sam barks a laugh. “We’re talking about Dean Winchester, right? Buff guy, eats too many burgers, can’t hold a conversation about feelings to save his life?”

          “I understand, but in this case-”

“Dude, dude.” Sam holds up a hand. “Don’t. Dean will talk when Dean wants to talk. Far as I’ve seen, he’s more open with you than he’s ever been with me. But you’ve gotta stop shrugging him off to the side when the going gets tough. I don’t know if what happened to our Dad did this, or if it was always hard-wired into Dean, but he protects those he cares about. Fiercely and completely. Don’t make him feel useless.”

Cas is outraged. “I _never-_ ”

 “You had his younger brother portal him out of the house without a how-do-you-do. Jig’s up, man.” At Castiel’s glare, Sam shrugs. “Hey, I’m only saying this cause I think Dean actually _likes_ you, more than he’s ever let himself like anyone, and it would be a shame if you fucked it up because you can’t get over your self-sacrificing protector bullshit. Just a thought.”

Schooled into silence, Cas stares at Sam until he unfolds the map and timeline, pinching the edges and adjusting it in the air. “If you don’t mind, I’ve got some homework to do.”

                                       ____

 

          Motel beds are the worst.

          After tossing and turning for hours-a fitful activity that had nothing to do with the continued absence of anyone-on the creaky springs and avoiding pushing his face in the splotched pillows, his brain finally ran the gambit on trivia and aimless meandering and quits.

          So his immediate emotion upon finding out he’s been awakened is a cranky bowl of irritation. The covers rustle, and the bedsprings release an animal screech as a heavy weight depresses the mattress. Strong arms wrap around Cas, who’s motionless and caught between turning around and pretending to still be asleep.

          The incongruous smell of spring and apples and leather would’ve betrayed the owner’s identity, if his soft cursing while he maneuvered his boots off before climbing into bed hadn’t. His unique Dean aroma is almost completely masked by the smell of alcohol, however.

          The last time Dean was drunk, Cas was forced to rewrite him. He can’t believe Dean put him in this position again. Now, when the very idea of being without the bastard pressed against his back sends daggers of terror through him.

          “Know yer awake,” Dean mumbles in this neck. His lips are damp, cold against Castiel’s sleep-warmed skin. “Too tense.”

          Maybe he should save this conversation for the morning, when he’s gotten some sleep and Dean’s sober.

          “You’re drunk.”

          Maybe not.

          “Yep. As a skunk. Ass skunk. Heh.” Dean giggles, and against his will, Castiel’s lips curve at the sound. How can the urge to strangle him and kiss him be separated by such a thin line?

          “Why? Why did you walk out earlier?”

          Dean groans. “Babe, please. Talk in the morning, kay? Sleepy.”

          _Babe_? If Drunk Dean wasn't so loose-lipped, Cas would be quite fond of him.

          “Did you tell anyone about me? About my abilities?”

          Dean’s sigh is deep. “Put a Smith lock on a while ago. Can’t say nothing. Won’t risk you again.”

          Any and all steam Cas was gathering evaporates. A Smith lock is a newer enchantment, intended to self-censure the caster to keep them from revealing what they consciously wouldn’t want to. It’s a big hit with criminals skirting lie-detecting magic, letting them circumvent truth serums by making the words impossible to speak. Dean’s alcoholic truth serum was a danger to Castiel’s security, so he fixed it. Just like that. So automatic is his instinct to protect that he didn’t even think he needed to inform Cas.

          Cas is the biggest asshole on the planet.

          “I’m sorry, Dean,” he whispers. Dean’s arms tighten around him, pulling Cas close until not a single dust mote could hope to wedge between them.

          “’m a Slayer. I’m-I’m _useful_. Right? I can help you, if you let me. Why won’t you let me help ya, Cas?” Dean’s completely cavalier as he shreds Castiel’s heart, throwing in a yawn for extra measure. “Couldn’t help Dad, did nada for Sammy. ‘m dead weight, ‘s what I am.”

          “ _Dean_.” Cas struggles to turn around, but he’s being held too tightly.

          “But…but you could let me _try_ , try bein’ there for you. You don’t always gotta be alone, sweetheart. ‘m not goin’ anywhere. That’s the nice thing about dead weight.” Dean presses a light kiss to Castiel’s temple. “We don’t budge easy.”

          Dean drops off quickly. His snuffling snore is muffled in Castiel’s hair, and not once does he loosen his grip on Cas.

          Iron bands of guilt twist around Castiel. Sam was right, damn it all to hell. He really hates that Sam was right.

          More than that, though, he hates that he’s made Dean feel this way. Protecting people isn’t hardwired into him like it is for Dean. Protecting _Dean_ , now that’s a class of its own. He’s never held this all-consuming fear of loss before, and just the thought of letting Dean participate in the battles he fights is arresting. But that’s not an excuse for handling things so poorly.

          He’ll do better by Dean this time. This fear…people live with it every day. He can learn.

          If he doesn’t, he’ll lose Dean anyway, and that’s not an option anymore.

          So, he’ll learn.

                    ††††††††   †††††††   ††††  †††††  ††††††

          Dean wants to chuck Meg and Baltha-whatever-the-fuck onto the party end of his dagger.

          It could be claustrophobia from spending the last two hours in Sam’s motel room talking strategy (the fucker burst into their room at the plumber’s crack of dawn with bloodshot eyes, screeching something about numbers and patterns. Dean nearly hurled his machete at his dumb face) with this merry group of misfits. It could be the distant pulse in the back of his skull reminding him he’s still hungover. It could be how Cas had rolled up and away from him as soon as Sam had woken them up and has yet to say more than three words to Dean.

          Really, it could be anything. How Bitch McBritish and his snarling brunette buddy are friends with Cas is a mystery.

          Right up there with how _Gabe,_ his friend and fellow Slayer _Gabe_ , knows Cas.

          Currently, everyone’s trying to avoid the conclusion they reached within the first twenty minutes of Sam’s rambling. To get to Lana, they needed to catch her at Volker’s Demarcation. Because of course, they couldn’t have it _easy_ , could they? God forbid their lives don’t play out like the flashback reel in a horror movie.

 Volker’s Demarcation is the absolute last place any sane creature would willingly go. When Cain split the earth, he left a magical crack behind, like a pulsing seismic tear. It’s supposed to circle the entire globe, but Dean’s only ever heard of it appearing here and in a few Asiatic countries.

          Where the Runoff is a magical wastebasket, Volker’s Demarcation is a volcanic bottleneck of magic. People used to think it was fun crossing into the desolate and deadened land, a pastime for the stupid and bored to screw around with lawless magic, until Magi realized that the hallucinations they were experiencing weren’t so imaginary and Gifted went plumb crazy, clawing into their chests to rip the ‘the venom’ free.

           Put simply, Volker’s Demarcation is where you go when you’re not too terribly worried about coming back out.

          “I want to eat!” Dean explodes, startling Sam into dropping his pen. “We have to go through Volker’s Demarcation. There’s no way around it. Sitting here and going over the same facts won’t change anything except how likely I am to cannibalize one of you motherfuckers.”

          “Easy for you to say when you know Cassie here would obliterate an obnoxious moth if he thought it was compromising your safety,” Balthazar drawls, smarmy and unwitting as he pokes the elephant in the room.

          Meg elbows him, but he shrugs, as if to say, _What, am I wrong?_

           “I don’t need anyone to take care of me,” Dean says gruffly, very carefully not glancing from the map stretched in the air. “Anyway, if we catch her outside the line, we might not even need to cross into the Demarcation. You said she needs to complete another three rituals to be ready for whatever Big Bad spell she’s casting? Well, we nab the soul-sucker before she finishes and gank her. We’ll get Sam’s girl back and the Omni Marks disappear. Can I have bacon now?”

          Meg is impressed. “He’s well-trained, Clarence.”

          “Since Dean’s midlife crisis on wheels won’t fit us all, I scored a set of wheels for me and the banshee twins.” Gabe dangles a set of keys from his index finger.

          “Should I ask how you came about this car?” Cas asks.

          “Depends-what are your thoughts on perjury?”

           “Okay then, its decided,” Dean interjects. “If Sam’s pattern is right, she should show up about a hundred miles north of here.”

          “Does tall, dark, and handsome have anything that belonged to his little lady friend, by chance?” Meg asks. Cas glances at her questioningly, and she nods with a small grin. He shakes his head, but its with affection rather than disapproval. The whole exchange, intimate and familiar, stirs something unpleasant in Dean’s growling stomach.

          “Yeah, in my bag. In Dean’s car. Why?”

          “There’s a handy trick Clarence taught me back in the day to track someone down. It’ll give us a general idea of where our diva of divine destruction is.”

          “Meg has the tracking skills of a bloodhound,” Cas adds proudly. Meg winks at him.

          So much for Dean’s appetite.

                                                _____

          They hit the road after lunch. It’s been a while since Dean’s gotten the chance to drive for long stretches of time, and in other circumstances, he’d be pretty stoked about getting to road trip again. But given the Cold War that’s sprung up between him and Cas, Dean’s too distracted to enjoy the hum of his engine or his Zeppelin tracks. He didn’t even angst this much in high school, but leave it to Cas to hang his balls up like mirror dice.

          After babbling to Cas for a solid hour about chemical anomalies in modern medicines and ‘ _Cas, did you know they’re using Rumrot to combat neurological deterioration?’_ or _‘Cas, did you read the article about the kidney regeneration work being done in East?’_ and Dean can’t forget the ‘ _Oh my God, Cas, you’ve got to show me how you make Lucid. I’ll never drink coffee again’,_ Dean’s Sam-induced headache is monstrous.

          Thankfully, Sam seems to have yammered himself to sleep. He’s stretched in the backseat, the snacks Dean collected from the gas station cluttered around his bent legs and a brownish Romaine lettuce stuck to his chin.

          “Seems like you’ve got yourself a fan,” Dean muses. On one hand, he’s thrilled that Sam and Cas are finally, _finally_ getting along like he knew the two nerds should, but on the other hand, if Sam keeps up the teacher’s pet routine, Dean might have to dump him on the side of the road and that just seems counter-intuitive to this whole shebang.

          Cas is leaning his head against the window, tracking the endless miles of farming land they’ve been driving through for the last half hour. “He’s got a bright mind, your brother.”

          “Yeah, he does. Too smart for his own good, when he’s not out there bargaining with his eternal soul.”

          Cas doesn’t immediately answer, and Dean risks a glance over to see that a heaviness has settled over Castiel’s features, the same weight Dean saw when Cas rewrote him and when he snapped out of his nightmare to realize he’d nearly strangled Dean.

          “Hey, c’mon, don’t do that,” Dean pleads. “We talked about this, Cas. Sam’s shit isn’t your fault.”

          “I never said it was.”

          “You didn’t have to.”

          Castiel curls his hands in his lap, and Dean is easily distracted by the light bluish veins visible past sun-deprived skin. “Don’t you tire of defending me all the time, Dean?”

          Taking one hand off the wheel to grope for Castiel’s hand, Dean makes a point of meeting his eyes. “Never.”

          Silence, slightly warmer than the earlier one, descends with Dean’s proclamation. Dean is content to leave his hand in Castiel’s lap, to be held and absently traced. He’s holding a mental tally of how many cows they’ve passed when Cas whispers, almost inaudibly, “I’m sorry.”

          Dean plays dumb. It’s not often he’s got the higher ground. “What for?”

          “For not throwing your carcass to a swarm of vultures,” Cas says sweetly. “And delighting as they feast on your flesh.”

          Okay, maybe playing dumb isn’t the best tactic. Also, note to self: Cas is a creepy fuck when he wants to be.

          “You’re shit at apologizing,” Dean remarks.

          “I’m aware.”

          “You’re a pain in my ass.”

          “Buy me dinner and I might be.”

          Dean barks a laugh. “You pompous little-”

          The teasing insult goes unfinished, because something large and heavy and distinctly person-shaped flies into the windshield of Dean’s car with a sickening crunch. The tires squeal as Dean swerves, cursing a blue streak, and drives the car off the road and into the adjacent crops.

          “Wha-? Whaz goin’ on?” Sam slurs, sitting up.

          Dean glances weakly at a grim-faced Cas. “Maybe it was a cow.”

          “And maybe overhead there’s a pig in flight,” Cas sighs, and gets out of the car.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're all so wonderful it makes me want to get all weepy and find a mike. Again, I'm sorry that updates now seem to be more sporadic and spaced out, but I rushed the ending for my last fic and I still regret it, so I'm trying not to repeat that mistake this go-around.   
> But I appreciate every kudos and comment and ounce of support, and we've only got, what, five chapters to go? The last stretch has arrived!


	19. Above the Summit

Chapter 19-Above the Summit

It isn’t a cow gushing blood on the side of the road.

          The girl can’t be older than nineteen, twenty, and in truly gruesome shape. Her legs are bent at unnatural angles and a part of her skull is caved in. The girly paisley dress she’s wearing is torn and bloodied, hiked up around her pale, slim waist.

          Dean turns on his heel and retrieves the blanket from the trunk, covering the girl with the gentleness she didn’t get to experience in her last moments.

          Castiel is circling her like a scientist looking at a peculiar specimen. He crouches by her head and tilts her chin, exposing the head wound.

          “Did I-Jesus. Was that me? Did I do this?” Dean grinds out, a breeze away from hurling all over the dirt.

          “Of course not.” Cas palpates the girl’s chest, the picture of clinical detachment. “She was dead before she was thrown onto your car.”

          “ _Thrown?_ What kind of sick fuck would throw a corpse on a moving car?!” Dean hates this fucking world, he really does.

          “Not any car. _Your_ car.”

          The rumble of an engine startles Dean into spelling open his gun, but its only Gabe’s rental. Dean collapses the gun back into his ring while they pull off to the side. Car doors slam, and Dean’s doubly thankful he had the blanket to cover the poor girl with.

          “What the hell? Dean?” Sam gasps, recoiling when he sees what Cas is crouched beside. “Did you-did you hit-?”

          “No! No, Cas says she was already gone when she hit my car!”

          “Someone threw her into our path,” Cas adds, rising to his feet and dusting his hands.

          “Do you think they did her in for wearing that hideous dress?” Meg asks. “Which is the worse crime, if you think about it?”

          “Let’s rewind. Someone hurled her onto your car like a used sack of potatoes?” Gabe repeats. “Friends, this person can’t have gotten very far unless they portalled.”

          “They could be watching us right now,” Balthazar says, voice reedy with paranoia.

          “No, she’s gone,” Cas says. “But Sam’s is about to undergo excruciating pain.”

          “What?” Sam squeaks.

          Glancing skyward, Cas appears to count something, and then looks down in time for Sam’s face to contort in agony.

          Dean’s by his side in a flash, grabbing his arm to keep him upright when he starts to crumble. Castiel tugs up Sam’s shirt, revealing the rough line forming above four identical slashes on his flesh.

          Just like this last time, they burn bright and then vanish, returning beneath Sam’s skin. Sam exhales jaggedly, going loose in Dean’s hold.

          “Your fifth Mark,” Cas states the obvious. Dean’s stomach threatens to upend once again, and he has to stop himself from grabbing Sam’s shirt and trying to count those goddamn Marks.

          “How? The girl? What does she have to do with Lana?” Dean demands, not bothering to tone down how frantic he sounds. Sam now has two Omni Marks remaining until he-until-he’s only got two. Dean feels helpless, like he’s bound by invisible ropes while his brother suffers. Sam’s knees finally stabilize, and Dean reluctantly releases him.

          “She tossed the girl onto the car. It’s a message.”

          “What, that she’s a murderer? Don’t think that’s quite the shocker she thinks it is,” Sam mutters.

          “The girl’s a virgin,” Cas says matter-of-factly. “And I am reasonably certain that there are six more dead virgins scattered in our vicinity.”

          “I should have known,” Meg sighs. “No one who’s gotten their daisy plucked would wear that monstrosity.”

          “Megan, please,” Balthazar reprimands. “…it could be roleplay. Farmer and fashion disaster.”

          Castiel’s eyes turn to slits, and Dumb and Dumber fall quiet.

          Gabe’s nostrils flare. “Six girls around us. As in…circling us?”

          “Yes.”

          “Shit von Shittaker.”

          Blame it on Dean never paying enough attention in class, but he doesn’t have a whiff of a clue what the hell they’re gabbing about. He elbows Sam and covertly mumbles, “You know what they’re on about?”

          “Corpse crop,” Sam whispers unhelpfully. “Dark magic. Anyone can come by and cast some shady shit until the energy wears off.”

          Fabulous. Who knew murder magic left an aftertaste?

          “Seven virgins,” Cas sighs. He peers down at the girl. “How cliché.”

          Usually its pretty easy for Dean to forget that Cas is actually Castiel Krushnic, felon, fugitive, and all-around badass in polished leather shoes. Dean’s seen his own share of dead bodies, sure, but he doesn’t treat them as interchangeable. He cares, much as it sucks. But Cas is…indifferent. Cold.

          “We can’t leave things like this,” Cas says. Dean wipes the metaphorical sweat from his brow. _See?_ Cas cares.

          He continues, “Anyone passing by can tap into the energy Lana left behind and link it to us. We need to neutralize it.”

          Dean frowns. “And the girls. We need to call the Keepers. We can’t just leave them here.”

          “Keepers?” Meg and Balthazar blurt in unison. Balthazar blanches. “Fuck no.”

          “Oh come on, its been a while since I’ve outrun those clowns,” Meg chirps. “Could be fun.”

          “We’re not calling any Keepers! Bloody hell, I’d forgotten the amount of bloody clothes I accrued in you and Castiel’s company,” Balthazar complains.

          “We’ll call the Keepers when we’ve driven fifty miles out,” Cas announces, leaving no room for argument. “They can’t barricade the roads that far out. Now, I’d like to get rid of the residuals, if there are no other comments or concerns.” He spears Dean a glance while he says this, and Dean tries not to flip him the bird.

          “C’mon kiddos, chop chop.” Gabe claps his hands. “I’ll take the north, Man Tree can draw up the south, and the leads of Mean Girls on east and west.”

          Dean’s glad he wasn’t assigned a position, because once again, he’s in the dark about what’s happening. He just stands there, inept and baffled.

          They’re about to scatter when Cas calls out, “Do not waver. Hold steady. It will require significant power to neutralize dark magic of this magnitude.”

          “Yeah, yeah,” Gabe says. “Do your worst, Big Daddy.”

          They split into their respective directions. Cas steps over the girl, so he’s got one leg on either side of her.

          “What’s going on?” Dean forces himself to ask. His pride is long gone by now. “What can I do?”

          Cas chews his lip, showing actual concern for the first time since the girl hit baby. “I’m going to neutralize the magic of Lana’s spell, so no one rides its coattails into another dark spell or uses it to find us. I expect to expend a lot of power.”

          “Oh.” Dean kicks the cement. “Okay, I got it. I can wait in the car. I know I’m no good at this.”

          “No!” Cas says vehemently, startling Dean’s gaze upwards. “No, I do need your help. It’s very probable I will collapse after this; I need you nearby.”

          Dean’s lips tick up. “You want me to catch you when you faint, Snow White?”

          Cas squints. “I don’t understand-”

          “-that reference, I know.” Dean waves his hand. “Get to neutralizing. I’ll be here.”

          Visibly relaxing, Cas shoots a fleeting smile at Dean and turns forward again. Squaring his shoulders, Castiel extends his hands forward and apart, palms facing each other. He exhales slowly.

          Light begins to form between his palms.

          As soon as it sparks, more and more thread together, gathering and growing brighter with each passing second. Soon, Dean has to lift his hand to defend against the glare. The sphere expands and takes shape, sparking with life.

The light shoots up, a surging beam of liquid gold, knocking Dean back onto his ass. Castiel’s hair blows back, but otherwise he stays still, veins forming in his rigid forearms. His jaw locks.

          The beam of light collides into an invisible ceiling. It blasts against the invisible apex, spilling in every direction. Dean’s eyes burn, but he can’t look away. It’s like watching the sun melt. The galaxy torn asunder.

          It’s beautiful. Dazzling. It’s the worst thing he’s ever seen.  

          The purpose for separating the motley crew to each of the cardinal points suddenly becomes clear when the writing waves of gold suddenly coalesce into four whirling pillars, curving around the summit of the ceiling and shoot down towards the land.

          Dean has a brief moment of anxiety for Sam, but he’s distracted by the sound of Castiel chanting in an unfamiliar language. His voice is low and commanding, carrying an ancient weight that slithers and roots in Dean’s bones.

          Bathed in the glow, eyes mirrors of blue fire, Castiel makes fools of kings, slaves of mortals. He’s something beyond human, above the living.  

Dean is in awe.

          Suddenly, Castiel slots his right wrist over his left and drops to his knees. Alarmed, Dean makes to move towards him when the light bathing them implodes, blinding, forcing Dean to shove his arm over his face and push his head to the ground against the blast.

          For a second, Dean’s mind floats above him, convinced they’re all dead, because surely they’re not meant to survive after a bomb like that.

          But then he hears Cas wheeze, a very human noise, and his mind snaps back into place. There are tear tracks drying on his cheeks, and his sore eyes are still watering. Dean stumbles to Cas, who’s braced on his hands and hands and knees over the body.

          “Cas, hey.” Dean reaches for Castiel only to be warded off by a shaking hand.   

          “Wait,” Cas grunts. He coughs. “Meg is testing the perimeter.”

          After what amounts to a century of watching Cas cough and struggle not to keel over, Meg finally skips into view. “Good job, boss! Air is pure.”

          Dean grabs Cas before he hits the ground and lifts him to his feet. Cas slumps into Dean, limbs like noodles. Dean anchors one arm around Castiel’s waist and the other over his back. Cas keeps his face buried in Dean’s neck.

          The others finally rejoin the scene, and there isn’t a single one of them who’s not sporting the glazed awestruck look Dean was just wearing. Except maybe Gabe, who’s got two lollipops bobbing vigorously in his mouth while he kneads his forehead.

          “Holy. _Shit_ ,” Sam says, and its reverential and quiet. He’s staring at Cas like he’s a textbook that comes with an answer key, brand spanking new for Sam’s collection.

 Dean draws Cas closer.

          “There’s the guy we’re following to the ends of the earth,” Balthazar declares. “Literally.”

          “He’s done cooler things. One time I was trying to sneak the box of Bavarian cookies the cooks kept stashed above the cupboards and Cas snapped it into my hands.” Gabe licks a long stripe down his lollipop with his cherry red tongue. “But yeah, that wasn’t shabby.”

          Meg bounds up to them and touches Castiel’s back. If Dean had a free hand, he’d shove her off. He’s willing to kick her down the highway if sister doesn’t step back.

So far, all this just makes him want to hide and protect the fatigued man in his arms from these vultures. Each of them uses Castiel for something; protection or power or both. Dean gets why Cas thought holing up alone for seven years was the way to go.

          “Clarence? You alright?” she asks, stroking over Castiel’s coat. To Dean, she says, “He’s out of practice. He’ll probably need to crash soon.”

          “I figured,” Dean snarks. He’s not sure, but he thinks Castiel might chuckle into Dean’s collar.

          “Guys, we should get going,” Sam says, glancing at the dark sky. “We need to be fifty miles out before we can call the Keepers. We’re losing time we need to catch up with Lana.”

          “I’ll ride with Clarence,” Meg declares. When Dean starts to protest, she shoots him a warning glare. “You’re gonna drive the car into a ditch watching him.”

          Dean grits his teeth but doesn’t deny the claim. He lays Cas carefully in the backseat, brushing a kiss onto his clammy forehead. Meg scoots in immediately after, lifting Castiel’s head onto her lap. She pets his hair and ignores the homicidal energy Dean is directing at her.

          He’s prepared to drive in silence until they get to the checkpoint, but Meg seems to have other plans.

          “So, how’d you and Clarence meet? Coffeshop? Bookstore? Coffee shop slash bookstore?”

          He’ll just ignore her. Maturity, right there. Sam would be so proud.

          “You don’t strike me as the reading type, though,” Meg continues. “Strip club. You make some extra cash by flashing your moneymaker and Clarence paid for a taste. You’re a regular Julia Roberts.”

          Not deterred by Dean’s lack of a response, Meg goes on, “You know, I’m not too surprised Clarence has the hots for a Slayer. He’s always been a fan of those salt-of-the-earth, rugged types. But what I don’t get is why you’ve stuck around this long. At heart, Clarence is still the spoilt, tortured little rich boy who mass manufactured the Magical world’s most potent drug. He’s a hedonist. When I knew him, all he did was get high, fuck, and screw around with the Keepers. Slayer’s operate on a moral code, but here you are with someone who wouldn’t know morality if it tickled his ass.”

          “Shut up,” Dean growls. He’s annoyed she managed to break him, but like hell is he gonna sit up here and listen to her talk shit on Cas. “You don’t know him anymore. He just passed out neutralizing that field so no one could use the power to hurt others. What’s more moral than that?”

          “You’re forgetting. Neutralizing it from others was only a fringe benefit. He shut it down to keep Lana from tracking you,” Meg points out.

          “You don’t know anything about him.”

          “Neither do you.” A glimpse in the rearview mirror shows Meg caressing Castiel’s cheek with a gloved finger. “No one truly knows Castiel. What he’s capable of, the lengths he’ll go. Being around him is its own kind of high, isn’t it?”

          Enough of this. Dean didn’t sign up for the Meg Talk Show.

 There’s no more conversation for the next hour. Dean loses himself in the endless stretch of road, only broken by the occasional sweep of headlights. He doesn’t let himself dwell on what Meg said. People change. Cas did.

          Otherwise, Dean wouldn’t love the son-of-a-bitch so damn much.

          He’s ornery and petty and there’s a healthy heap of crazy stirring his soup, but Dean loves it. Loves _him_.

          And from the tenderness in Cruella De Bitch’s eyes whenever she looks at Cas, Dean’s not the only one.

          Dammit. He needs to make nice with Cas’s friend and former fuck-buddy. He leads with the most obvious question. “Why do you always wear those gloves?”

          Meg pauses for a second. She resumes her activities with Castiel’s hair, thoughtful. “He didn’t mention it?”

          With great effort, Dean withholds his reflexive snark and simply replies, “Nope.” And because he’s only human, he adds, “Obviously.”

          Meeting Dean’s gaze in the mirror, Meg pinches the fingers of the glove on her right hand. She slowly slides the leather off, revealing clean half-moon nails and dainty fingers. Huh. There goes Dean’s scales and claw theory.

          “I suppose you wouldn’t believe it’s a fashion statement,” Meg muses, holding her hand out in front of her. “Well, Dean-o, I’ll let you in on my secret.”

          She trails her index finger down her throat, slow and seductive. Dean blinks, caught between being weirded out and…actually, nothing. It’s just plain old weird, thanks.

          “I have a condition. Or, a gift. Depends on your rosy glasses, I suppose. I can kill a fella with nothing more than a little slash of these babies.” She wiggles her nails again.

          “Ah, piss off,” Dean snaps. “If you’re just gonna bullshit me, just save it.”

          “I’m serious, meathead,” Meg returns hotly. “I break skin and you’re done for.”

          “Sweetheart, listen, it ain’t a hard sell for me to believe you’re poisonous, but come on. Venom nails?”

          She rolls her eyes. “I’d prove it to you, but I think Cas would be put-out if I euthanized his plaything. Can’t imagine why.”

          Dean snorts, but he doesn’t press her any more. He’ll ask Cas when he wakes up to confirm if Meg’s spoon-feeding him from her heaping crock of bullshit.

          In the back, Meg replaces her glove, and they go back to silence, two strangers linked by one prostrate man.

 

††††††††   †††††††   ††††  †††††  ††††††

 

          Castiel wakes up with his head pillowed against a hard chest.

          He instantly regrets it when his migraine rouses with him, hammering at the inside of his skull vindictively.

          Propping himself up on his elbow, Cas smiles at the sight of Dean sprawled out on the bed, book laid flat on his belly and a light snore falling from his parted lips. He’s closing the book and laying it on the nightstand when he spots the cover and pauses.

          _Medical Composition: Who Can Do It, and Who Shouldn’t_ by Naomi Campbell.

He’s read this novel. The author blabs on about Composers who abuse their Pursuit to fulfill their own narcotic needs and says nothing of substance about the craft itself. Why is Dean wasting his time on this garbage?

          Dragging himself from the warmth of the bed, Cas shuffles into the bathroom. He splashes water on his face and fills the plastic cup next to the toothbrush holder, forcing down two glasses of water from the sink. His reflection is haggard, worn down from breaking an energy field. An energy field. He should be able to do that in his sleep. He is dangerously out of practice at a time where he can’t afford to be anywhere but at his peak.

          Dean’s still asleep when Cas reemerges. Per usual, the ‘vortex of doom’ (as Dean so succinctly calls Castiel’s spirals), retires at the sight of the Slayer.

Cas pulls the covers up around Dean’s shoulders, smoothing a wayward strand of hair from his forehead.

          He’s in love with this man.

Utterly and irreversibly.

          If he spells continue to faze him like this one did…Cas doesn’t want to think about it. He needs to get stronger.

          Too agitated to sleep, Cas switches off the lights in the room and quietly exits. The door clicks shut behind him.

          “He has risen,” a sultry voice declares behind him. “Praise be!”

          Cas almost jumps. Almost.

          He’s too exhausted for this. “Why aren’t you in your room?”

          Meg peers at him from her perch against the wall. “Madonna and Willy Wonka won’t shut up. I was afraid they’d either kill each other or bang, and I didn’t want to be around for either of those, thanks.”

          Castiel’s nose wrinkles. “I’m fairly certain Balthazar is not Gabriel’s type.”

          “Haven’t you heard that danger is the lubricant of romance?” Meg hums, linking her arm through Castiel’s. They meander down the hall, stumbling like a pair of drunks.

          “Your boy asked about my gloves earlier,” Meg says. She sounds peeved. “He didn’t believe me when I told him the truth.”

          Typical Dean. Skeptical to the rooster’s crow. “I’ll vouch for your integrity in the morning.”

          “That’s what a lady likes to hear.”

          When they reach the wall at the end of the hall, they slide down to the floor by silent mutual agreement, legs stretched in front of them. Loose curly threads poke out from the tight braids of mottled yellow carpet. Castiel resists the urge to yanks at them.

          “How’re you feeling? You were pretty out of it in the car.” Meg taps his foot with her sneaker. “Had me all and lover boy all aflutter.”

          He feels like there’s a construction crew slamming around his cranium, humming while they pulverize his frontal lobes. “I’m fine.” He turns, a joke about lover boys on the tip of his tongue.

          When he freezes, Meg blinks her brown eyes in puzzlement. “Clarence?”

          He remembers a cold and grimy alleyway floor. Remembers the smell of wet cement and rotting garbage. The chitter of racoons and rats.

Remembers the prostitute with clumpy hair, tattered elbow gloves, and a wicked smile.

          He remembers saying to her, carelessly, foolishly, selfishly, ‘ _A little over a decade. Not bad.’_

          “Meg,” Cas whispers. “How long has it been since we’ve met?”

          Understanding dawns on Meg. She quirks her lips, small and sad.

 “A little over a decade, Clarence.”


	20. Le Petite Mort

Chapter 20-Le Petite Mort

He truly thought he was past shock. Past grief. Years of knowing the date of someone’s last breath before even learning their first name has rendered Castiel immutable, unflappable.

          Until the numbers scribed on Meg’s soul, the numbers he’s grown so accustomed to seeing that he didn’t notice, didn’t take pause.... until those numbers finally calculated in his head.

 All while Meg’s been completely alone, grappling with her own rapidly impending mortality.

          “Aw, sweetcheeks. I’m touched, but you don’t have to feel bad for me.” Meg pats Castiel’s knee. If anything, she seems relieved by Castiel’s sticken silence. “I’ll be okay.”

          “No, you won’t be,” Cas chokes out. “You _won’t_. Does Balthazar know?

          She snorts. “You think I’d tell that old git something like this? He’s got the emotional constitution of a soggy biscuit.”

          “How are you so calm about this? Why aren’t you angry at me? Angry at the universe? You should be locked in a secure room somewhere so you can wait this out.” Castiel’s already mapping out locations he can whisk her off to, where nothing can get at her. Where the only constant in his life will be safe. Where his best friend might have a chance of surviving.

          Idiot. He’s such an idiot. After seeing the numbers over and over, they become fixed, easy to ignore. What Meg must have thought every time he looked into her eyes and didn’t speak a word.

          “Don’t be stupid. I’ve been around long enough to know no one lives past one of your decrees, Clarence. I’ve known I was gonna bite it for a long time, hon. I’m not angry anymore. Maybe a little scared, cause I haven’t exactly been earning brownie points with Big Guy all these years.” She picks at her nails, knees curling into her chest. It physically pains him to see her, usually so full of personality and pomp and life, frail and vulnerable like this. He wants to comfort her with every bone in his body, but with what? There’s nothing to say. It’s clinical. Final.

          An expiration can’t be swayed by kind words or thoughtful gestures. Like the Reaper’s scythe, it slices through marrow and muscle and cuts right to the bone.

          Meg continues, “You know I don’t believe in fate or destiny or any of that sparkly horse shit. My Mom left when I was ten because my Dad was a mean, drunk bastard. I grew up in a whorehouse because they were a million times better for me than what I had going on at home. It boils down to decisions, choices we make. That’s something I’ve always believed, had to believe, but when I saw you at that dinky little dive bar, Clarence…You were a miracle. My first miracle. You saved me in that alley a decade ago, and now you’re here, doing it again.”

          “I didn’t-”

          “Can it. You did save me. I hated my life, Clarence. Yeah, we did some shady shit, and I’m sorry for how it messed with your head, but I don’t regret it. You gave me a decade of life better than any of the years I lived before you. Quality over quantity, and other clichés.”

          She turns abruptly and grabs Castel’s collar, forcing his neck down so he’s nose-to-nose with her. “And I swear on everything you hold dear that if you hold yourself responsible for my death after I’m worm food, I’ll come back and make it impossible for you to bang your boy-toy without a studio audience.”

          Cas laughs, soft and pitiful. “More’s the merrier.”

          She’s unamused. “Clarence. I’m serious. I do not want you to add my death as another badge to your gilded guilt collection. Capiche?”

          Cas kisses the tip of her cute, upturned nose and eases out of her grip. “I capiche.”

          She searches his expression for a moment, but he gives nothing away. After a long moment, she sighs, not seeming all that reassured. “You’re a stubborn ass, Krushnic.”

          “Yet here you are,” Cas cracks. He won’t allow himself to be anything but strong for Meg. Later, when he’s alone, he’ll process this. _Process_. Ha. More like find whatever’s handy to inhale or swallow and forget.

          Dean’s face, open and trusting, swims in Castiel’s mind. He can’t turn to his old methods to cope with this. He can’t do that to Dean.

          How is he supposed to recover with nothing but his own two feet to stand on?

          “Here I am,” Meg agrees. “Because if don’t get to pick my own expiration date, I can damn well pick who I’ll spend it with.”

          Shit. _Shit_. Castiel stares at the ceiling. The last person who said these kinds of things to Castiel is long dead and buried, and it just figures Meg is due for the same fate. Poison. He’s poison. More potent than a slice of Meg’s nail, tainting everything he touches.

          “Thought we’d be setting Keeper’s cars on fire, but I guess a noble mission isn’t a bad way to go. It is noble, right? ‘Cause I have to be honest with you, that Rapunzel wannabe Winchester does not shut up. The car ride was a misery. I almost considered hopping onto Lana’s team just to never hear him say, ‘ _Pattern detection in hyperactive agency’_ ever again.”

          Cas chuckles. “He grows on you.”

          They fall silent, Castiel reflecting on the fact that Sam won’t get the chance to grow on Meg, and Meg thinking…who knows? Cas doesn’t understand how she’s so calm, or why she’s here in the first place. If he was in her shoes, he’d be drunk in a hot tub with fifteen cabana boys.

          _Bullshit_. _You’d be with Dean. Eating burgers and driving around in his sexed-up Impala._

“So, given you were pretty nondescript the first time around, think you could give me the exact date I’ll be shedding this mortal coil?” Meg asks. Hesitant but sure.  

          Cas swallows. Ordinarily, he’d never heed this kind of request. It only brings suffering. But there’s no sign of a delayed mental breakdown, only steadfast acceptance and curiosity in Meg’s gaze. And Cas owes her this.

          “Three days,” Cas whispers. “You’ll-it’ll-Meg, my God, I’m so sorry. I should’ve noticed sooner. I should have never let you come with us. There’s danger everywhere, we’re literally battling a creature old as creation, and I _bring you-_ ”

          “If your egotistical ass will recall,” Meg interrupts. “I burst through your front door like a trademark badass and wedged myself in. Were you, like, listening to my whole profound speech back there? I. Love. You. You stubborn fuck. I wanted to be here with you and that blonde British buffoon.”

          Castiel folds her in his arms, tucking her head under his chin and dragging most of her small body onto his lap. She fits herself against him with a harrumph.

          He searches for the right words. More than a paltry ‘I love you’. He wants to tell her than when he was drowning, she was his shore. That being lost wasn’t too bad, when he had her wandering with him. That he’ll never forget her, as surely as he’ll feel her loss for the rest of his days.

          But words mean little to Castiel, and Meg knows this. So he just holds her close, matching the rise and fall of her chest while he counts the breaths she takes. He plays with her silky hair and absorbs this moment, this Meg, alive and breathing and whole, into himself.

          Maybe words would hurt less, because once they’re spoken they’re easily forgotten. This stretched eternity passing in a blink of an eye will live in Castiel forever.

          He’s not sure which is worse.

          The padding of feet against the carpet pull Cas from his reverie. He glances up at Dean, who’s watching him and Meg with a raised brow. Thankfully, he seems more amused than annoyed.

          Meg is fast asleep against Castiel’s chest. Cas doesn’t want to wake her, but he also can’t stand up without jostling her.

          Cottoning on to Castiel’s dilemma, Dean crouches to their level and with the gentle patience he’d shown covering up the slain girl with the sheet from his car, he transfers Meg into his own arms and rises, cradling her closely. She looks like a porcelain figurine against Dean’s broad chest, tiny and breakable.

          They take her to her room, where Gabe and Balthazar are blessedly passed out in various positions on the floor, tiny glass bottles littered around them. Dean steps over Gabe’s prone form on the floor and lays Meg down on the bed. He takes care to tuck the covers around her and even smooths the hair hanging over her nose. The sweet and so patently Dean-like action makes something foreign prickle behind Castiel’s eyes.

          There’s a twinkle in Dean’s grin when he spots the unwrapped lollipop still clutched in Gabe’s hand. He gives it a few thorough, deeply stirring licks before sticking it onto Gabe’s cheek, where it will inevitably dry in a candy crust on his skin.

          Gentle and caring. Childishly immature. There’s an endless pit of contradictions to Dean Winchester, and Castiel has yet to find one he doesn’t adore.

          The second the door to their room clicks shut behind them, Dean shoves Cas up against the wall. He glowers at Cas, but the effect is dimmed when this close-up, he can admire the sweeping lashes framing Dean’s eyes, and count the sun-kissed freckles scattered across his skin. The fog of misery heavy in his chest lightens; he breathes, filling his lungs with the leather and soap and rainstorm scent of Dean.

          “Don’t you dare go comatose on me like that again, got it?” Dean growls. “I’m sick of being scared shitless because you can’t spare yourself a passing thought before diving into something stupid. I’ve got a little brother for that.”

          He flexes his grip on Castiel’s collar and scowls severely. Castiel has to press his lips together to suppress a smile.

          _I will get through her loss if I have him beside me. I can survive it all, so long as he is at my side._

          Dean licks his lips, and the tired defense of Castiel’s reply dies at the plain hunger on Dean’s face. “But-and this still doesn’t make your shithead behavior okay-that was really, really hot. You were like a fucking lightning rod, man. All that power sparking around you.”

          And Castiel, self-proclaimed wordsmith and stoic, snickers and says, “Rod.”

          Dean closes the distance between their lips before Cas can make an even bigger fool of himself. Its like their first kiss, hard and edged with something unnamed but powerful. Despite the fact that Castiel’s soul feels heavy after his talk with Meg, despite his lingering exhaustion and endless fear for everyone’s lives in the days ahead, he can’t think of a single place he’d rather be than in his seedy, mustardy hotel, Dean’s tongue in his mouth and his hands gripping Dean’s firm ass.

          Cas pulls away to take in Dean’s glazed gaze, lips damp and pupils dilated.

          _Fuck_. The walls are too thin, the walls are too thin, he shouldn’t, Dean’s brother is right next door-

          Castiel shoves Dean onto the bed. Dean topples onto his back and catches himself on his elbows. He watches Cas prowl towards him with a smirk, toeing off his shoes and licking his pink lips.

          “Took you long enough.”

         

          ††††††††   †††††††   ††††  †††††  ††††††

          A shiver of excitement passes over Dean at the single-minded intensity of Castiel’s measured movements. Cas hooks his shirt over his head and tosses it to the side, exposing the lean, rippling torso of a guy who makes a habit of boxing in the middle of the night. He’s so distracted by Cas undressing that he forgets that he’s fully clothed too, and only starts pawing at his shirt after a pointed glance from Cas.

          “Your brother is next door,” Cas comments idly. He tilts his head in Dean’s direction and unbuckles his belt with a metallic clink. He slides the leather from the loops with a soft hiss, never once wavering his stare. “Aren’t you worried he’ll hear you?”

          _Fuck._ Dean’s not gonna make it. Or maybe Cas won’t. He might have the magic juju, but Dean’s got the muscle plus the pent-up sexual frustration of a sixteen-year-old.

          Meanwhile, Dean rips off his jeans with all the prowess and seduction of an air-borne goldfish, flopping left and right until they hit the ground. “How do you know he won’t hear _you_? I’m no screamer, buddy.”

          Castiel doesn’t grace the blatant lie with a response, choosing instead to slide his pants and boxers off in one go. Then he’s as naked as the day is long and _fuck-a-chainsaw_ the day ain’t the only thing that’s long.

          “Why are you giggling?” Cas asks, baffled amusement in his voice. He hooks his fingers in Dean’s boxers, dragging them down his thighs and off his feet. “That’s not the normal reaction my nudity receives.”

          “No-no, you’re so hot, I’m not-oh God,” Dean dissolves into another fit, and somewhere his rational self is screeching that he’s about to finally have sex with the guy he’s crazy about and severely fucking it up by _laughing while he’s naked_. He doesn’t even know why? Bad puns? The thunderbolt realization that he’s never been straight a day in his life, because all he wants is for the dark-haired dude with the big dick to stick it to him like there’s no tomorrow?

          Thankfully, Cas looks more entertained than anything else. He sits back on his haunches, stroking himself in slow, lazy twists of the wrist and waiting for Dean to finish.

          Which he does at record speed when he gets a gander of Cas.

          “You gonna have all the fun over there?” Dean goes for swagger and misses, landing squarely on hoarse and nervous. Dean’s good at sex, okay? He’s gotten no complaints from the ladies, that’s for sure. In the arena of common society, most would even say Dean is a player, a ladies’ man. But Cas doesn’t play for the arena of common society.

          _I was…a bit sexually adventurous in my youth._

Realization hits him like a bolt. “Meg and Balthazar. They’re the ‘nimble young man’ and the girl who liked to inflict pain. Right? Shit. I’m right.”

          While Dean’s busy picturing his boyfriend having manners of sex that stretch beyond the limits of what his apparently painfully vanilla mind can endure, Cas groans. Situating himself between Dean’s legs, he spreads over Dean, a blanket of warmth and endless valleys of smooth, lickable skin.

          Dark hair tickles Dean’s nose. Castiel’s mouth is flattened and he’s glaring at Dean like he just kicked Cas’s favorite puppy. “Are you worried I’m not going to be faithful to you?”

          “No!”

          “Are you questioning my ability to be monogamous?”

          “Cas, I didn’t-” Jesus, but Cas can make a guy squirm.

          Castiel’s voice drops impossibly lower. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

          Dean’s breath catches. “Yeah. Uh, hell yeah.”

          “Then stop talking about Meg and Balthazar,” Cas growls. He licks his lips. “And kiss me.”

          Who’d say no to that?

          They kiss with the fervor of the grateful, the living, knowing what’s right in front of them could be ripped away at any time. Dean’s missing confidence returns with a vengeance, surging like a tidal wave.

          He flips them over, and they both groan when Dean’s dick slots against the hard line of Castiel’s. Dean sucks a spot-on Cas’s neck while Cas takes them both in hand, jacking them _way too slowly._

“Lube,” Cas gasps gruffly, jerking when Dean’s wandering Hoover mouth travels to his nipple. “We need lube _now_.”

          Dean’s tongue has barely touched the head of Castiel’s cock before he’s being torn away. His whine of need turns into a low moan when Cas flips him onto his stomach, manhandling him with ease.

          Cas’s fingers ghost over the arch of his spine. “You are truly mesmerizing, Dean Winchester. Body and soul.”

          He’s ass-up and face-down but somehow that compliment has the power to turn him crimson. He coughs a barely audible version of a thank-you.

          From the low chuckle Castiel releases, its clear Dean’s stupidly bashful display didn’t go unnoticed. A tingling firm finger probes his entrance, and Dean immediately tenses.

          “If you think you’re going in dry, you’re in for a real- _ohholymotheroffuck_ ,” Dean shouts, slamming a palm into the bedframe. Castiel’s hot tongue doesn’t quit, Cas’s hands on his thighs simply anchoring him in place while he eats Dean out with enthusiasm.

          If you’d asked Dean yesterday how he felt about the prospect of getting rimmed-well, he’d have punched you straight in the mouth, first of all. But now he’s pushing back on Cas’s tongue and moaning like a pornstar, because clearly the sex Dean’s been having till now has been mediocre at best.

          “I wasn’t going to go in dry,” Cas mumbles when he comes up for air. “I made sure the engine was clean, is all.”

          A surprised laugh bursts from Dean. Christ, Cas magicked him clean. “Did you just call my ass an engine?”

          “I thought it would be a relatable metaphor. You don’t appreciate anatomical correctness, I’ve noticed. Turn around.”

          Dean blinks, nearly missing the gravelly command. Like the impatient child he is, Cas turns Dean over himself when he doesn’t move fast enough.

          The picture Castiel makes has Dean’s stomach dropping. His cock is rock hard against his belly, long and mouthwatering, his hair is mussed to all-hell, and his chapped mouth is wet and begging for Dean’s tongue. There’s a fevered glint to his customarily tranquil gaze that gives Dean’s own granite dick another throb of excitement.

          “Please tell me you had the foresight to grab lube,” Dean hopes.

          Ignoring him, Cas bows over his body and sucks on one of Dean’s dusky nipples like they’re appetizer’s he’s decided to sample. One of his arms reaches off to the side, palm up.

          A bottle appears in Cas’s palm while Dean’s got fists in the fucker’s hair, debating whether to clutch him closer or shove him up. Dean barks out a laugh.

          “That’s neck cream, dude.”

          Cas pops off Dean’s nipple with an obscene wet sound. “Damn.” His brow furrows in an adorable display of concentration. The neck cream is replaced with a tiny plastic bottle of Shea Cocoa Butter.

          “I’m not putting butter up my ass, Cas. Do I look like a croissant to you?”

          “I am _trying_. I’m distracted, in case you haven’t noticed.”

          Because Dean’s a massive bag of dicks, he decides to amuse himself by wrapping fingers around Castiel’s length while Cas figures out how to hack an interspatial grocery mart, or whatever spell he’s whipping around.

          Cas bites out a harsh curse and throws a withering glare in Dean’s direction, but he doesn’t still the hand moving lazily over his cock. Dean swipes his thumb over the leaking head of Castiel’s dick and, spurred by innocent curiosity, licks his thumb clean. It’s bitter and the flavor will take some getting used to, but that’s secondary to Castiel’s instant reaction: he snarls a command in a foreign language and throws his hand open, knocking over a plastic cowboy set on the dresser and exploding the flickering light in the bathroom.

          In his palm sits the long-awaited bottle of lube.

          Cas wastes no time fingering Dean into a leaking, babbling mess. He’s got three fingers firmly working in and out of him when Dean’s shameless begging finally hits its mark, and Cas pulls his fingers free of Dean’s writhing body and dribbles lube over his length.

          “Fuck, Cas, c’mon, c’mon,” Dean pleads, not even sure what he’s saying anymore. He’s never been so goddamn turned on in his life. He angles his hips up, offering, beseeching, and the frenzied lust that takes hold of Castiel is more than gratifying to any insecurities Dean may have held.

          Cas captures Dean’s lips as he slowly pushes in. It hurts, like being split in two, enough that Dean bites down too hard on Cas’s plush lower lip and tastes the familiar tang of blood on his tongue. Cas gasps, not in pain, but in intrigued pleasure.

          When Cas bottoms out, Dean’s grown accustomed to the foreign sensation. More than accustomed. “Move,” he orders, poetic as ever. He tries to thrust forward, but he’s firmly trapped against the mattress and Castiel’s body. Caught beneath his thrall.

          “Ask me nicely,” Cas purrs. _Asshole._

          “Fuck me or I’ll go find someone else who’ll pick up the slack,” Dean goads, knowing he’s playing with fire. It works; Castiel’s face darkens, and his fingernails leave scores in Dean’s sides as he pulls back enough to thrust in again, hard and punishing and delicious.

          “You’re _mine_ ,” Castiel growls in Dean’s ear, and the possessive razor edge to his words shouldn’t send a thrill down Dean’s body, shouldn’t have him grabbing handfuls of Castiel’s ass and urging him on. “Nobody else gets to see you like this. I’m the only one who can know how hot you feel wrapped around my cock. Who can hear these pretty noises.”

          He punctuates his point by fucking Dean like a man possessed and ripping the filthiest, raunchiest sounds and curses from Dean’s lips. Who knew the Composer in the tan trench coat had such a filthy mouth? Dean should’ve figured; those lips were made to drive Dean out of his mind in every way conceivable.

          “Mine, my Slayer, _my Dean,”_ Cas repeats, like a prayer, a benediction, a plea. He hikes Dean’s leg up to his chest, pounding relentlessly, hitting a spot inside that has white bursting across Dean’s vision. “They won’t take you away, do you understand? Won’t let them. _Mine._ ”

          Dean’s beyond trying to decipher Cas Neanderthal speak. Cas has found his prostate and he nails it with every push. Sweat trickles down Dean’s chest, and he’s sure the fingernails raking down Castiel’s back have broken skin. He’s flying towards a release he’s almost afraid of, too big, too encompassing to handle.

          “Yours, ‘m yours,” Dean gasps out, the hazy promise lost in the wild tangle of Castiel’s hair. “Fuck, Cas, _yes fuck don’tstopdon’tstop._ ”

          “You-” Cas pulls back far enough to pin Dean down with dark and bottomless blue eyes, “You won’t let them take you. You won’t leave.”

          There’s more to this than trashy dirty talk, there’s a real fissure in Castiel that Dean’s witnessing right now, something yawning and empty and threatening to swallow this man whole. It requires a helluva lot more discussion than what Dean does, which is moaning ‘YES!’ and sinking his teeth into the meat of Castiel’s shoulder like a fucking vampire marking his prey.

 One minute he’s hurling towards the edge at breakneck speed, and the next the world is a blank and he’s being pulled inside out with a pleasure so raw it demands to be felt in every molecule of Dean’s chemical makeup. He thinks he might be screaming; there’s really no room to tell, or care.

Dean vaguely registers Castiel’s strangled groan. Cas collapses on top of the sticky mess on Dean’s stomach, a solid, warm weight. Dean’s brain is scrambled and it’s the middle of the night, so he only feels a slightly embarrassed that with Cas still inside him and fluids coating them both, he passes out cold.

         

         

          At breakfast the next morning, no one can meet his or Cas’s eyes. Except Meg, who’s grinning lasciviously, and Balthazar, who looks wistful.

          Sam is staring down at his waffles with ears the color of tomatoes, and Dean fears the worst. He tells himself he’s just being paranoid; the walls of the motel couldn’t be so weak that the entire floor heard Cas screwing him into the next dimension. He’d gone out of his way to make sure he didn’t limp to the table, despite the pronounced ache in his ass that was only slightly soothed by the warm shower he’d taken an hour ago. Cas had offered to massage the discomfort away with his tongue, but after last night, Dean wasn’t letting that motherfucker get anywhere near him unless he had a solid week blocked off for the sole purpose of sex and sleep. A hard decision to take, considering Cas had looked freshly fucked and debauched when Dean woke up from his orgasm coma.

          Cas sighs. “Just spit it out.”

          “I thought there was an earthquake, my bed was shaking so badly! Good show, Cassie!” Balthazar crows.

          “I had to dump ice down my pants,” Meg adds.

          “I thought Dean was being dismembered. Turns out he was just working his member,” Gabe quips, then slaps his knee and guffaws.

          Sam chews a bite of his pancake, primly dabs his mouth, and says, “I may never feel clean again, you horny motherfuckers.”

          Turning to Cas, who’s fighting a smile at Dean’s ketchup complexion of fiery humiliation, Dean claps a hand on his smug boyfriend’s shoulder. “I’m gonna need that lobotomy now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) This was the slowest of burns and for that I apologize  
> 2) if you ever see me writing anything tagged Explicit ever again HIT ME WITH A HAMMER because writing smut is HARD  
> 3) After my finals next week, remaining updates will be updates in a timely manner  
> 4) I read every comment y'all write (tho I've been shit at replying) and they give me LIFE, it makes me so happy you don't even know


	21. Eye of the Storm

Chapter 21-Eye of the Storm

“Just use a regular map, man!”

          “Welcome to the modern times, grandpa-we use MSS, now.”

          “Major shit shows?”

          “Magical Spatial Systems, jerk!”

          “If we get lost, I’m kicking you and your precious MSS into the deep blue sea, bitch!”

          Sam huffs childishly and minimizes the sprawling aerial visual of their location into a small, compact square. He slides it to the corner of the dash, where they can watch the car drive along the marked path.

          “Why do you think Cas wanted to ride with Gabe and the freakshow twins?” Sam asks.

          A question Dean’s pondered since they left the hotel three hours ago and Cas insisted he replace Sam in Gabriel’s stolen vehicle. They’d wasted a day going over strategy, despite Dean’s protests, and left bright and early this morning. Meg had rolled her eyes when Cas cleaved to Gabriel’s car, but Cas just reassured Dean they would be right behind them the whole way.

          “Beats me.”

          Silence returns, stifling and strained. Despite the progress they’ve made, they haven’t spent much time alone together since Sam dropped into the backseat over a month ago. They haven’t sorted through the crap that kept them from speaking to each other for a straight two years, and Dean doesn’t know how to open that can of squiggly, psycho worms. Doesn’t know if he _should_. Wouldn’t it be better to leave the past in the rearview where it belongs? Dredging it up now will ultimately end with both of them pissed off and an even more awkward car ride.

          He reaches for the stereo. Foolproof tension-breaker. Sam had switched it off after an aggressive game of who-can-slap-which-grabbing-hand-faster after complaining about a headache. Baby.

          “Dean, can we talk?” Sam asks, staying Dean’s hand on the volume knob. Shit. Just under the gun.

          “Sure. ‘Bout what?”

          “You know how much I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, right? Not just now, but like…always, I guess. If this doesn’t work-”

          “Hey, whoa, slow down there.” Dean takes his gaze off the road to pin Sam with a hard glare. “Don’t talk like that. This is gonna work.”

          Sam chews the inside of his cheek. “C’mon, man. I’m not dumb. I know that the odds aren’t in our favor on this, which is why I want to tell you-”

          “Sam, you’re going to be-”

          “Stop it! Just stop speaking for me, Dean!” Sam explodes. Good thing this is one of those two lane roads in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, or else they’d be nose-diving into a ditch. “You’ve always done that. You always speak for me.”

          “ _What_ are you-”’

          “Stop. No more cutting me off. Let me say my piece, okay, please?” Sam’s voice drops, resigned, like he’s already expecting Dean to butt in.

          Lips pursed, Dean jerks a motion for Sam to continue. Say his precious piece. In the meantime, Dean will come up with arguments to refute everything he says and marinate in righteous indignation.

          “You have always watched out for me. You spoke for me when no one else would. You yelled at Mom when she dragged us from place to place for her so-called cause. I remember you’d scream at her about how I went to bed crying every night, about how I had no friends, how miserable I was. When I stopped speaking for three months in second grade, you were devastated. I swear, I thought you were gonna kill her. A scrawny little teenage brat was going up against one of the most powerful women in the Magi political world to argue about how his little brother wasn’t eating or speaking anymore.”

          Sam stops. From his periphery, Dean can see him twisting his fingers into the fabric of his jeans, picking at the knee. “You never once made a case for yourself. It was as if how you felt was never a factor in anything. You were like you were a sword for me, deadly, but just a tool. A weapon on my behalf. God, Dean, I thought the sun shined out of your ass for so long. Still do, if we’re being honest.” Sam laughs, watery and bitter.

 Dean’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel. Absurd as it is, he wishes Cas were here, anchoring him with his firm grip on Dean’s shoulder and steady, unfaltering patience. Or at least a bottle of jack.

“After a while, I started treating you like that. Like a tool, not a person who’s been hurt just as bad by Mom, if not worse. I thought, if I can impress her, if I can help her with this anti-Mortal crusade she’s been on since Dad died, maybe she’ll care about me. I thought I could please her, and I couldn’t understand why you hated her so much.”

          “I never hated her,” Dean rasps, breaking his pledge. “I wanted to. Bad. But come down to it…”

          “And she’s blood,” Sam finishes. “I know. Look, Dean, what I’m trying to say is I shouldn’t have cut you out just because she did. Hell, I think being a Slayer is the coolest damn gig out there. You help people. You protect them. You do what Mom and her suited-up cohorts could never do, and you do it better than anyone.”

          Dean clears his throat, which has suddenly gone tight. “I’m not good at much else, kid. Cutting Ravine down and spitting out spells here and there does not a genius take.”

          When he’s met with silence, he glances at Sam to find him regarding Dean with a soft sadness. “That’s my fault too. Even in your head, you put yourself last.”

          “Knock it off, kid. You don’t get to take credit for this hot mess.”

          Sam chuckles, which Dean counts as a victory. “I missed you, Dean.”

          “Me too, Sammy.”

          “If this doesn’t work out, and I…well, if I want you to know I love you. And I’m sorry.”

          Never has Dean been so tempted to betray someone’s trust. All he wants to do is to tell Sam he’s worrying over nothing, that Cas has known since Sam was a writhing, bleeding mess on a hotel bed that he would live a long life. Cas isn’t wrong about these things, Dean excluded. But Cas is unpredictable; last time Dean drunkenly babbled about Castiel’s Gift, he’d gotten rewritten and sent away like a faulty product. He knows Cas is sorry about it and all, but no one can blame Dean for having trust issues.

          So he settles for reaching over to punch Sam’s arm and gruffly muttering, “Love you too, princess. This is all useless cause you’re gonna be fine, so let’s put the kibosh on this chick-flick moment before we start braiding each other’s hair.”

          “Such a delicate daisy, your manhood,” Sam sighs dramatically. “Is there anything that doesn’t put it at risk?”

          “A condom.”

          “Dean.”

          “Or Cas’s mouth.”

          “DEAN!”

          “I’m just saying…guy’s got a dangerous mouth, but there ain’t no risk, you feelin’ me?”

          “Does this door unlock? I want you to run me over at least five times.”

          Dean’s resounding laugh catches in his throat when the sound of tires squealing come in through the open window. He catches a glimpse of Gabe’s car, which had maintained a steady pace behind them for hours now, suddenly rev forward, driving into the dirt bank and tilting to the side as it tears ahead of the Impala.

          Driving back onto the dirt road, the car spins. And as it’s mid-turn, Dean spots a figure bursting out of the still-moving car and breaking into a dead run. Gabe’s car comes to a stop across the lane, tire tracks whitening the loose gravel beneath them as it barricades the way. 

          Slamming his foot onto the brake, Dean narrowly avoids T-boning the car. Sam curses, slapping his hand on the dashboard at the lurch of the sudden stop.

          “What the _fuck_?” Dean explodes.

          “Is that Cas?” Sam gapes, pointing where the figure that leapt from the car is standing with his back to them, a dozen feet away. His coat is billowing behind him, and he’s got his arms spread out towards the open road.

          Dean’s out of the car in a heartbeat, shoes slapping the ground as he sprints toward Cas. “Cas!” he calls, skirting Gabe’s car. Car doors slam behind him, but he doesn’t pause to make sure everyone’s okay.

          When he’s within arm’s distance, Cas suddenly whirls, throwing his hand out. “Wait!”

          Say what you will about the rest of his abilities, but Dean has impressive reflexes. He stills immediately, freezing to the spot. “What? What is it? Is she here?”

          “Let me just finish…” Cas inhales deeply, clenching his teeth around the breath like it might try to escape. When he exhales, Dean blinks in rapid succession.

          “Did he just blow out glitter?” Sam asks from somewhere behind Dean.

          “I stand corrected: _that_ is the gayest thing I’ve ever seen,” Gabe says.

          “Genius,” Meg murmurs.

          The sparkling motes of Castiel’s glittering breath (Dean’s gonna have to process that one later) flow from him in a stream before hitting an invisible wall. Like a firework, they blast in different directions, sending rays of pink and red and green slithering across the planes of the flat air.

          They track the dissipating pink trails of the stars until the borders of whatever wall its slinking around. One by one, they hit the edges and disappear.

          Dean’s ears pop, and the hairs on his body rise, as if he stuck his finger into an electrical socket.

          Balthazar is the first to gasp.

          The road in front of them vanishes. In its place yawns an abyss, stretching for miles on either side of them. They stand on the edge of pure nothingness; not an iota of light casts a shadow on the silky blackness of the gaping maw below.

          A single bridge connects them to the other side. Too narrow to fit two people side-by-side, its about three hundred feet across, give or take, and swings in a none-existent breeze. It extends to what seems like a dark forest, but in this place, what you see is not necessarily what you should believe.

          “Bloody hell,” Balthazar croaks. “We’ve tempted the devil often in the past, Cassie, but that bridge looks like its being held up by a mere prayer.”

          “What’s down there, do you think?” Sam asks, quietly awed. He shuffles to close to the lip of the bluff, and Dean places a warning hand on his elbow.

          “Probably not dew drops and daisies, Sasquatch,” Gabe mumbles. “This is Volker’s Demarcation. Didn’t they teach you anything in school?”

          “This is the crack Cain left when he split the Earth,” Sam says. Dean half-expects him to crouch down and inspect the dirt for historical significance. “God, part of me didn’t think it was real.”

          “It’s very real.” Cas speaks for the first time since breaking the wall. He looks a little pale, but no worse for wear after bringing down what appeared to be a gigantic power fortress. “If we hadn’t stopped the cars where we had, we would have eventually disappeared, dissembling into fragments with each passing mile, our very beings torn apart by the pressurized magic of the Demarcation.”

          “That’s…pleasant,” Meg mumbles. “I guess we’ve got to cross that little bridge to get to the other side, right? No portalling?”

          “Not unless you want to smear your insides against the side of the Eiffel Tower or an Irish pub,” Gabe answers. He kicks a rock into the abyss. They watch it tumble down, down, down.

          “So who’s going first?” Balthazar queries, motioning toward the bridge that’s already nauseating Dean worse than a day-old chili dog.

          Cas gets a steely glint in his eye that Dean doesn’t like one bit. He turns to face them, his coat sending dust particles swirling on the ground. “I’ll be going with Dean. Only Dean. The rest of you should set up camp a few miles back.”

          “Are you insane?” Meg hisses. “We didn’t come all the way out here to watch from the sidelines. I know what you’re doing, Castiel, and _its not going to work_.”

          Dean’s brows crawl up his forehead. He’s clearly missing something here.

          “You’re not watching from the sidelines. When Dean emerges, its likely he will have magical poisoning. I trust no one else to help him.”

          “Whoa-when Dean emerges?” Dean slashes a hand through the air to cut the remaining trio’s protests. “Where the hell are you in this scenario?”

          Cas meets his eyes, two blue pools of tranquility. “I will be dead.”

          Dean’s stomach twists, a sickening upheaval, at the same time that his fingers twitch to wrap around Castiel’s shoulders and shake some sense into his martyred, stubborn ass self. Dead-ha! As if Dean is walking out of that goddamn forest without him.

          “You will all die,” a voice says, wispy and quiet, appearing in their midst. A girl, roughly Sam’s age, materializes next to them. Thick dark brown hair cascades down her spine, framing a lovely oval face and gloomy hazel eyes. “Please, please leave. Leave _now_.”

          Everyone springs back, Dean’s gun appearing in his hand with a thought, heavy and reassuring. Gabe’s got his hands raised, threads of electric blue sparking between his fingers, while Meg and Balthazar are shoulder-to-shoulder.

          “Sarah!” Sam gasps, and like the moron he is, moves towards the girl. “Thank God! I thought-I thought it might be too late, I thought she might have already-”

          “Sam, _please,_ ” Sarah cries, anguished. She skids away from Sam. “You need to run, right away! She knows you’re here!”

          “No! We’re here to help you! Come on, get in the car, I’ll hide you while my brother and Cas get rid of her.”

          Sarah weeps silently, pale wrists locked to cover her hanging head.

          “That would be pointless, Sam,” Castiel sighs. “Seeing as this is only a projection of your Sarah.”

          Meg kicks the girl. Her foot sails straight through Sarah’s stomach. “Creepy.”

          “You would have dropped her into the abyss!” Sam reprimands Meg. His hands hover helplessly over the crying projection. “Sarah, please, you’re out there somewhere. We’re coming for you, baby, okay? We’re coming.”

          Suddenly, Sarah’s spine snaps straight, her shoulders bowing into place. Her arms unfold at her sides. She lifts her head, slowly, hair sweeping back from her face.

          In a flash, Castiel is in front of Sam, shoving him away. “Get back!” he shouts. “Move!”

          Dean’s glued to the spot. He meets Sarah’s gaze. Gone is the lost, sorrowful girl. The eyes staring back at him are unspeakably cruel, belonging to an evil older than the mortal soul can conceive, darker than the abyss gaping wide behind them.

          She flicks her gaze to Cas, and Dean’s body sags in relief, released from the horrors of that _thing’s_ attention. “Castiel Krushnic,” she says, voice high and melodic. “I must say, you do not disappoint. I wasn’t sure you would be foolish enough to follow me out here. It is a profound relief to know you lack the wits of your predecessor.”

          “Lana.” Castiel smiles thinly. “Don’t flatter yourself. You mattered nothing to Cain, and the sentiment has only grown with the centuries. You have something that belongs to us.”

          She claps her hands excitedly, trilling a laugh. “Oh, I do love quick repartee! But I’m afraid if you’re referring to my dear little Sarah, she’s belonged to me longer than your kind have known this Earth.”

          “Now, if you mean this peculiarly stretched fellow,” Lana continues, flicking her nails in Sam’s direction. “Then, yes, I suppose I do possess something of his.”

          “Give him his soul back, you gnarled old bitch!” Dean growls, striding towards her only to be wrestled back by Gabriel. “Take the Marks off him!”

          Lana blinks once, long and sleepy, like a barely tuned-in cat. “I would lament the company you keep, Castiel, if they were not the architects of your destruction.”

          “Enough, Lana. What would you have for Sam Winchester’s soul?” Castiel barks.

          “And Sarah!” Sam pleads behind Cas. Dean is gonna punch him in the teeth; does now seem like the time for his teenaged little crush? “You have to save Sarah!”

          Both ignore Sam, thankfully. “I’m sure we could come to a fair agreement amongst ourselves, yes?” Lana purrs. “Find me before I find you, and we can deliberate for the price of young Sam Winchester’s eternal essence.”

          “You want us to go romping around in there so you can cut us down like deer? Do we look stupid to you, lady?” Meg spits. “Fuck you and the egg that hatched you free.”

          “I’ve grown quite tired of your friends’ insolence, Castiel,” Lana snaps.

          “How about you grow a pair and come face us yourself? Or are you all talk and-” Meg punches through Lana’s chest-“Pixels?”

          Later, when Dean’s whirling mind has settled, he won’t remember the rage that distorts Lana’s mask. He won’t quite recall how Meg’s breath was punched from her lungs as Lana’s spear ran her through, lifting her in the air like a sheeshkabobbed ragdoll. Even Balthazar’s bloodcurdling scream won’t linger, not for long.

          But no passage of time will ever erase the memory of the utter devastation in Cas’s eyes when he runs forward, too slow, too late, and howls,  
“ _No_!”

          Lana slides Meg off her spear with distaste, dropping her body into Balthazar’s ready arms. “I’ll be waiting.”

          Castiel yells an unfamiliar word, shaking the air around them, but Lana is gone, taking the incorporeal form of Sarah along with her.

                             ††††††††   †††††††   ††††  †††††  ††††††

         

          As soon as Lana vanishes, the ground begins to quake beneath their feet. Sam and Dean stumble away from the edge of the abyss. Cas is already falling to his knees beside Meg, pressing his hands over the bleeding hole in her stomach.

          Bits of earth sift, falling into the abyss with a groan. “What’s happening?” Gabe shouts, clutching Sam’s arm to remain upright.

          “Its closing!” Sam replies, pointing to the bridge, which is swaying back and forth madly. “We need to go!”

          The wound isn’t closing. Cas is pouring magic into her, _and the wound isn’t closing_.

          “Clarence, you…have…to leave,” Meg coughs wetly. “No time.”

          “Shut up, Meg. Just…shut up. I can fix this,” Castiel hisses. Years and years of healing Kevin’s patients, of wielding the best and worst of science and magic at his fingertips, and he can’t save this one patient? No. No.

          “Cas.” A voice at his ear. Dean. “We gotta go, man. I don’t know what she’s doing, but there’s something crawling around down there. I do not want to be here when it heaves itself up.”

          Meg seizes beneath Castiel at the next tremor of the earth. Balthazar clutches her close as the wind howls, Gabe and Sam falling next to them like sawed tree trunks.

          “ _Afil, ifil,”_ Cas tries, throwing spells of every variation. Dark red blood continues to ooze sluggishly, coating him to the wrist. “Why isn’t it _working_?”

          Meg grits her teeth. “Because the spear was magical, dillhole.” She exhales jaggedly. “Time to pay the piper, Clarence.”

          _“_ I told you to shut up.”

          “Get your head out of your ass and listen to me. I’m meant to die. I’m-” she pauses to spit blood off to the side. Balthazar dabs her mouth, tears pouring into the scruff of his prickly blonde beard. “This was always gonna happen. But I don’t want it to be in vain. I want-I want-”

          Meg’s trembling hand curls into Castiel’s lapel, yanking him down. “I freely give you the last I have to offer, Castiel Krushnic.”

          It hits him like a bolt of lightning. “You’re insane. Balthazar is going to portal you to the nearest hospital, you can survive this, Meg.”

          “No, I can’t!” she bellows.

          “Guys!” Gabe shrieks, pointing. A creature, thin and reedy, writhes within flesh of shadows, hunched and hungry. It reminds Castiel of an ant that’s learned to walk on two legs.

          And where you find one ant, you’re likely to find a colony.

          “I got it. You settle this,” Dean murmurs. He squeezes Castiel’s shoulder before striding towards the creature. He holds his palm out, and a long, serrated sword appears in his hand. The handle is studded with rare jewels, the steel cut glinting in the rays of the dying sun.

          “C’mon, Clarence, please,” Meg coughs. “Take it now.”

          “I refuse to-”

          “Shut the fuck up, Castiel,” Balthazar growls, startling both of them. Rage glints in his eyes. “This monster cut Meg down. She is offering you a weapon to aid in that banshee’s destruction. Take it and avenge her.”

          “But Balthazar.” Castiel feels his resolve slipping away. “I don’t want to kill her.”

          A tear slips down Meg’s cheek. “I’m already dead.”

          More creatures are scraping out of the abyss. Dean is hacking them down in a whirl, his sword cutting a swathe through the approaching masses. Gabe and Sam are keeping the things from getting too close to the three of them, but they can’t keep it up for much longer.

          Castiel comes to a decision. A crippling, awful decision. “Lay her flat, Balthazar.”

          Balthazar sweeps the hair off Meg’s forehead and presses a kiss to her fevered skin. He scoots back, covering his face with his elbow as he hunches in on himself and shakes.

           “Last chance to back out,” Castiel whispers. He runs his thumb down Meg’s cheek, chasing her tear. “We can still save you.”

          Though it looks pained, Meg smirks. “Never backed out before, cupcake, not gonna start now.”

          “It has been one of my life’s greatest honors, knowing you,” Castiel says solemnly. “You deserved better than me.”

          Behind them, Sam shouts for Gabe to watch out. A gun fires.

          Meg smiles at him radiantly. Gently, she rakes a blunt nail along his cheekbone, careful not to break skin. “Thanks for being such a freak that I got to feel like the normal one.”

          She exhales and lays one hand over her stomach, where the fabric is matted and sodden with blood. “Go on. Do it.”

          With great trepidation, Castiel lifts his hand and holds it palm-down over Meg’s face. It feels like someone is kicking in his chest, collapsing his lungs.

          Meg meets his gaze and winks.

           “ _Ru’h dedit.”_

          Meg’s back bows. Her lips part in a silent gasp, and her eyes glaze over.

          Blue and gold light rises from her mouth, wispy at first, but growing thicker with each passing second. It wraps around Castiel’s fingers like a caress, soft and beloved.

          When its done, Meg’s body slumps to the ground, lifeless. Balthazar scrambles to her while Castiel rises. He unfurls his fist to gaze at Meg’s last breath, a beautiful helix of blue and gold. Pure power. Once upon a time, he’d collected these from those who crossed him. Who made the mistake of not realizing what Castiel was capable of.

          He’d stripped the last breath from many, but never had the sight of a lifetime’s finishing stamp made him sick to his stomach like this one.

          Around Meg’s neck is a crescent amulet, a short chain she’d once told Castiel belonged to her biological mother. Castiel tugs it from her neck, ignoring Balthazar’s whimper, and pours the last gift Meg had to bestow into the crescent.

          Tucking it into his pocket, Castiel does not waste a second longer sitting in his grief. He bursts into action, encasing his arms to the shoulder in savage, ravenous flames that lick and reach for this next victim. He tears through the shadow creatures like tissue paper, ripping into them with glee.

          “Get to the bridge!” Gabe shouts. “I’ll hold them off!”

          Castiel glances back at Balthazar. He’s lifting Meg’s body into his arms and retreating. His eyes are pleading, and that’s when Cas knows; Balthazar is out. He’ll take Meg and bury her, and Castiel will never see him again.

          With a nod, Castiel releases Balthazar of any guilt or responsibility. He turns his back on his two longest friends, the one left behind and the one long gone.

          Dean grabs Castiel’s elbow, immediately extinguishing the flames under his touch. “We gotta go!”

          “Gabriel-”

          “I’ve got this!” Gabe hollers, slicing a creature in half with a jaunty skip. “Get over that bridge! I’ll be here when you get back.”

          They run, cutting and slicing and maiming through the shadow things that just seem to pile up after each other. When they reach the bridge, Dean skids to a halt. Sam plows into Cas, cursing when his elbow bumps the fire coating Castiel’s arms.

          “Dean? Let’s go! What’re you doing?”

          Dean swallows thickly, his gaze trained on the maw of nothingness below them. He grips Castiel’s hand and chuckles humorlessly. “Bad time to mention my fear of heights, huh?”

          “Not the best,” Cas agrees. He beckons Sam ahead of them; best to place that boy where Cas can keep an eye on him and make sure he won’t sneeze and plummet over the rope, or something equally asinine. “Just focus on me. I won’t let you fall.”

          They step onto the bridge. Dean grits his teeth, but obediently trains his attention on Cas. Over his shoulder, the creatures are dwindling, falling victim to Gabe’s whizzing sword. A few stand at the head of the bridge, but make no move to follow them.

          Step-by-step, they make their way over the bridge. Dean’s eyes are soft on Cas, but his grip on his hand is bordering on painful.

          Finally, they reach the other side. No sooner have they stepped into the copse of trees than a deafening _snap_ sounds behind them. They watch in horror as the ropes holding up the bridge fray and fall. When the last line snaps, the bridge tumbles down, wood panels clacking into the distance.

          On the other side, Gabe makes a series of hand gestures before turning on his heel and sprinting away.

          “What’d he say?” Sam asks. He doesn’t seem particularly eager to hear the answer.

          “He signed ‘ _shit’_ and ‘ _catch you on the flippity flip_ ’. Either he plans to set up camp and wait for us to emerge, or he’s fleeing the country. I am not acquainted with his mannerisms.”

          “I am,” Dean sighs. “He’s probably going to shack up at a fancy hotel and roll up to check if we’re alive in a day or ten.”

          _Us. We_. Castiel is maintaining the farce that he’s included in the count of those who will be surviving this expedition. He palms the amulet in his pocket. Castiel has no faith that he’ll be surviving this. But he’ll be damned twice if he allows harm to befall the Winchesters. No one else he loves will die at his expense. Castiel will see to that.

          On the other side of the abyss, a shadow lingers on the spot where Meg’s blood darkens the ground. Unlike the other creatures, it doesn’t bend to the light around it, but consumes it, a pocket of space that shouldn’t exist.

          Castiel has seen it before. He fought it for Claire Novak’s soul.

          It watches him for a second, a century, and then it’s gone.

         

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWO  
> MORE  
> CHAPTERS!!
> 
> Freaking LOVE the thoughtful, sweet comments that blow my mind every chapter. Thank you so much, guys. 
> 
> talk to me on 


	22. Requiem for a Dean

Chapter 22- Requiem for a Dean

          The woods of the Demarcation aren’t anything special. Tightly clustered trees, annoyingly loud twigs-very standard. The stark absence of sound, though…that’s different. No birds chirping in the trees, no insects or animals rustling in the bushes.  Pure silence.

Naturally, Sam has taken it upon himself to remedy this, clopping along with his enormous feet.

          The darkness quickly becomes a problem, and since Dean is opposed to Castiel walking around ‘like a human torch’, Cas has to find other means to illuminate their way. He’s been leery to disturb anything in this hellish scape, since Lana’s spies are numerous, but he doesn’t think she’d attack now. She’s more methodical than that. Her goals are loftier than mere spilt blood.

          Cas snaps off two thick branches to turn into makeshift torches, lighting them with a touch. To guide their way, Castiel enchants a hazy cloud of light-bugs into existence. Azure stars that wink in and out as they light the path, always a few steps ahead.

          They’ve been walking in silence for a while when Sam asks hesitantly, “Do you know where we’re going?”

          Castiel’s voice is rough with disuse. He clears his throat. “Yes.”

          He supposes that the benefit of having your friend die in your arms is that people tend to quell their more sarcastic urges around you, because Sam only politely says, “Where’s that?”

          The universe must decide Castiel has been through enough, because they reach their destination before Cas can respond. A perfect circular clearing, the size of three of the Impala’s bumper to bumper, marks where they’ll be waiting out the night. The light-bugs rise above them, spreading out until they blanket the space, gentle light pulsing to the background of the inky sky.

          “Here,” Castiel answers. “We’ll set up camp and do the ritual to summon Lana in the morning.”

          Sam shifts, worrying his lip. “Is that the best idea? We’re completely exposed. Anyone-any _thing_ \- could come by while we’re sleeping.”

          Castiel is so tired. Sam is doing nothing more than exhibiting the signs of a good warrior, mapping the territory and potential risks, but Castiel wishes he would just once take information at face-value. This entire enterprise is to ensure his safety and longevity. Castiel losing his home. Meg, her life.

          As if sensing the gloom weighing on Castiel like granite, Dean’s arm lands on his shoulder, giving it a tight squeeze. Concerned green eyes roam over him.

          “I have no intention of sleeping, Sam,” Cas replies. He removes Dean’s hand from his shoulder to brush a light kiss against his knuckles before letting go. “Do you still have the backpack I gave you at the motel?”

          “Yup. Held onto it all day.” Sam slides the straps off his arms and passes the backpack to Cas. There is an apology in his eyes that Castiel wearily accepts.

          Using magic in the Demarcation is astronomically more dangerous than in the Runoff. There, the worst the magic can do is go wrong. Like sparks shooting off in all directions. Aimless, but dangerous.

          But not here. Magic in the Demarcation morphs. It saps from its owner, becoming monstrosities catered to their victim, nightmares of the most fearsome caliber. The horror stories Mortals would tell-still tell- about magic, about the Magi, can be traced back to this place. This vast, hopeless wasteland. Even now, he can feel the pressure against him, as if he’s underwater and waiting to kick to the surface for a breath.

          The Demarcation only exists because of Cain. Because when the X-madness gripped Cain, power shearing the last shreds of humanity from his bones, legend holds that after he’d torn the earth asunder, he’d poured the mad magic into the cracks of the Demarcation. Ripped it from his body, and sealed it here. He’d died, but the mad magic lived on, hungry and pulsing and eternal.

          Castiel is reasonably certain he’s the only one in this clearing who can hear it whispering, seductive, sweet, inviting. It reaches out to him like a long lost love, begging to be reclaimed. Millenia have passed since a vessel has existed that could house it. Could rise above the masses, destroy dynasties, rule the earth and its squalid occupants, who could _never_ understand, can _never_ be worthy of a power like this-

          Exhaling roughly, Cas shakes his head. The mad magic is in his head. It wants him, and that is what Cas had been afraid of. His blood is tainted. His Gift is cursed. He is _wrong,_ perfect for a place where nothing is right.

          “You alright?” Dean asks, crouching beside him. “Is the zipper stuck?”

          He realizes he’s still on bent on the ground, mid-way through opening the backpack. He shakes himself. “I’m fine.”

          Ignoring Dean’s skeptical expression, he digs for the supplies he packed back in the motel. He’d sent Balthazar and Meg out to get these especially, knowing they would be difficult to come by in the remote location but trusting their ability to get the job done.

          He finds three translucent, hard cubes in an inner pocket of the backpack. They both jangle in his palm like dice, and rattling in tune to his bittersweet sadness.

          Meg packed three tents, and they only have need for two.

          He drops one of the cubes back into the backpack and stands, motioning Sam and Dean behind him. Sam moves slowly, and Cas stifles a sigh. If he had met this young man separate his intoxicating older brother, Cas is fairly certain he would have strangled him at their first meeting.

          Castiel presses the cubes to his lips, one by one. His mouth shapes words around their hard edges, and he blows a breath into his fist.

          Then he rolls the dice.

          The cubes scatter on the ground, rolling on opposite sides until the momentum slows and they come to a stop. They sit in the dirt, innocuous.

          Sam manages to wait two whole seconds before he’s shuffling his enormous feet and going, “Uhh, what are-”

          Cas is smugly satisfied when the cubes implode outwards and shut him up.

          Four metallic rods rise from the cubes, stabbing into the dirt and reminding Castiel of tarantula legs. Thin, metal tubes bubble and grow from the rods, linking them together until parallel bars close around the four sides to form walls. There’s a small opening in front, just big enough for a person to squeeze through.

          A velvety purple canvas dresses the rods in a rich, gauche color. The last touch is a big red bow, winding itself at the tip of the tent.

          Years have not numbed Balthazar’s childish sense of humor.

          “Cas, did you build us…porn shacks?” Dean asks, voice thick with suppressed laughter.

          Despite himself, Castiel’s lips twitch into half a smile. Dean brightens at the sight of it, so Castiel smiles the rest of the way. “This is Balthazar’s idea of a joke. Gaudy as it is, it’ll serve us well for the night.” He winds his fingers through Dean’s, leaning into his side. He wants badly to collapse right here, bury his head in Dean’s neck to deafen the voices sliding like silk through his mind, to hoard his warmth until the chill in his soul disappears.

          “And yes, Sam, it will protect us from any creature that comes upon it. Save Lana, and if she wanted us dead right away, she could have easily taken care of it on the other side of the Demarcation. What she wants is a negotiation. The bars were carved by Gifted silversmiths. The magic is infused into it, so it won’t hurt us. You can rest easy within their wards.”

          “Thanks Cas,” Sam says, somewhat sheepishly. He pushes his long hair back and seems to battle with something before moving forward in two quick strides and wrapping his arms around Castiel.

          Cas stills, perplexed. With the hand that’s not enclosed in Dean’s, he tentatively pats Sam’s shoulder.

          “I appreciate you doing this. I’m sorry if I come off as a nosy, suspicious dick. I’m working on it.” Sam steps back. His cheeks are tinted red with embarrassment. Castiel finds himself amused. Random displays of affection waylaid by self-deprecation. Annoying he may be, but Sam is truly his brother’s kin.

          “It’s alright, Sam. I can respect nosy and suspicious over witless and trusting.”

          Sam rubs the back of his neck. Above them, the light-bugs shimmer in a wave, and if they weren’t in the center of a veritable minefield, Castiel might think this was almost…nice. He imagines this is what going camping would be like.  

          “Alright, well, I’m gonna hit the hay. Got some ass-kicking to do tomorrow, right?”

          “Right,” Dean says. He’s been watching them with a small smile, his thumb tracing lazy circles over Castiel’s pulse point. He turns to Sam, determined and no-nonsense. “We’re gonna beat this, the three of us. That decrepit Old Realm hag won’t know what hit her.”

          “I don’t have a doubt in my mind,” Sam says. A shadow crosses his features, gone in an instant, but Castiel recognizes it anyway. He suppresses a sigh. Of course Sam’s mortality is looming over him. Reassurances and pomp aside, he’s expecting to die. He’s a young man doing the best he can, and Castiel’s been nothing but short with him.

          “Your brother is right,” Castiel tells him. For a moment, he considers telling Sam about his true expiration date before nixing it. Temporary comfort it might provide, but then that shadow of mortality would never leave. “Goodnight, Sam.”

          “Night guys.” Sam turns, lifting the flap of his tent and crouching to squeeze through before suddenly stop and poking his head back out. “And please remember we’re in _tents_ in the middle of the _Demarcation._ No hanky-panky.”

          “Thanks for the tip, Grandpa.” Dean flips Sam off and is rewarded with scrunched up nose and jutted chin. Dean chuckles. “Get that bitchface into the tent, go on.”

          They wait until Sam’s zipped himself in for the night before entering their own tent. The interior is simple, the curtainlike velvet canvas covering the ground and a spongy mattress in the center. It’s designed to only fit one person, but that doesn’t seem to matter to Dean, who yanks Cas down until they topple onto each other, landing on the mattress with an _oomph._

“Dean, your elbow-”

          “Cas, that’s my liver you’re on-”

          When they’ve finished untangling, Cas’s leg is hitched over Dean’s hips, and Dean’s palm is under Castiel’s shirt, hot against his back.

          This close, Castiel can see every flawless brushstroke of Dean, from his sooty eyelashes to the freckles that Castiel’s yet to properly count. Under his eyes are dark from the sleepless nights. There’s a bump on the side of his nose from a break that didn’t properly heal.

The thin, jagged scar on the back of Dean’s neck, curving up to the shell of his ear, that Castiel never got the chance to ask about. He does now, tracing the raised skin with a shudder. This could have killed Dean. Dean, who’s warm and alive beneath him, could have lost the light in his eyes and the breath from his lips from this.

          And Castiel, who’s been lost since he died in a swimming pool at age four, might never have been found.

          Dean touches the scar self-consciously. He gets a faraway look, fingers drawing patterns against Castiel’s spine. “It’s stupid. I’m stupid. I’d gotten into a massive fight with Sammy-the fight that kept us from speaking for two years, actually-and I was pissed. Pissed and brash and reckless. Crowley told me about a hunt that was less than twenty minutes away, and dumbass that I am, I didn’t call for back-up. Didn’t think I needed it for a siren. Spelled earmuffs and a dagger dipped in _ta’ban_ blood through the heart. Shoulda been a piece of cake, but I broke the cardinal rule of Slaying: I got distracted. She got a shot at me, slashed this baby right here with her claws. I managed to gank her in the end, but damn, I thought I was goner. There was blood everywhere.”

          “Head wounds often bleed to excess,” Cas says faintly. He can picture vividly what the scene must have looked like, and it makes him sick to his stomach.

          “Yeah, that’s what Missouri said before she threatened to kill me herself if I ever ‘pulled such a fool move’ again.”

          “Who is Missouri?”

          Dean’s distracting hand on Castiel’s back comes to a rest on his bare hip. “She was a kickass lady who got me through some tough times. I’ll tell you more about her, when we get out here. She woulda like you, I bet.”

          _When we get out of here._ The ‘we’, spoken with such certainty, like no other outcome could be possible, digs into Castiel’s chest like a knife. “I’m sure I would have liked her, too.”

          He kisses the scar that almost stole what belongs to him. “Don’t pull a fool move like that again, Dean.”

          “Yeah, yeah.” Dean grins. “So that ugly scar the only thing you plannin’ on kissing tonight?”

          “Nothing about you is ugly. And your brother will throw a fit if I kiss anywhere else.”

          Dean tests the canvass with a few prods. It doesn’t gives under the pressure. “Seems pretty soundproof to me.”

          The jaunty brow waggle is too much, and Castiel has to muffle his laughter in Dean’s shirt. Dean’s pulse beats strong and it strikes Cas that this might very well be the last chance he gets to be with Dean. Intimate. Close. There’s still so much of Dean he still doesn’t know. This could be it.

          “Whoa, whoa, Cas!” Dean’s amused protest is drowned in the cotton of his shirt, which Castiel is tugging off him with single-minded determination. His cheeks are red when Cas succeeds in discarding the offensive garment. “Slow down there, buddy. We’ve got all ni _NNghhhh shit_.” Dean cuts off with a gasp of pleasure as Castiel’s mouth latches onto his nipple, licking and sucking on the peaked bud with enthusiasm.

          He’s desperate for every taste of Dean’s body. He tongues his nipples until they’re spit-slicked and dark before mapping the rest of Dean’s chest with hands, lips, and teeth.

          When Dean’s neck arches back with a groan, Castiel takes the opportunity to latch onto his pulse point and _suck_.

          “C-Cas,” Dean manages to get out as Castiel sucks a blossoming bruise to Dean’s neck. “Are you giving me a fricken hickey?”

          “I plan to give you many,” Cas replies, sitting back on Dean’s stomach to appreciate his work. Dean licks his lips, staring up at him with undisguised heat, and Castiel decides to lean down and chase Dean’s tongue with his own. They kiss, wet and sloppy. Unbridled desire heats Castiel’s from the inside out, and he gets rid of the rest of their obtrusive clothes in record time.

          He will never tire of Dean naked. Miles of tan skin, muscles moving smoothly beneath the surface. If Castiel were inclined to the arts, he’d render Dean onto countless surfaces, futilely attempting to capture the beauty before him.

          Dean’s looking at Cas like he’s going to devour him, primal and base. Whether he’s willing to admit it or not, the looming possibility of death colors their thoughts, lending an edge of desperation to their frantic touches.

          The pale insides of Dean’s thighs become the next targets of Castiel’s mission to imprint his mark on Dean’s body. He has to clamp down Dean’s hips to keep him from wriggling. His moans, shameless and wanton, fill the tent as Castiel sucks color into Dean’s skin.

          “Cas, c’mon, stop dicking around and start _dicking around_ ,” Dean grunts. He yanks Castiel’s hair with a particularly ferocious tug. For that, Castiel hitches Dean’s knee up and sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of his rear.

          Dean’s cock, hard and leaking on his belly, jerks. Dean’s not going to last long. Then again, neither is he.

          “I didn’t bring any lube, Dean,” Cas says regretfully. “I’m dying to be inside you, but I won’t risk hurting you.”

          “Fuck that.” Before Cas can stop him, Dean mumbles an enchantment and produces a travel-sized bottle of raspberry lube.

          “Dean!” Castiel shouts, whipping to his feet. He glances left and right, skin crawling in fear. The Demarcation has a taste of Dean’s magic now. It might want more, and Castiel is not keen on meeting the emissary of its greed.

          Gritting his teeth, he loosens the mental walls keeping the Voice out.

          _A tainted vessel, just like him, just like the last one. We shall burrow deep into the putrid flesh of the earth, gnaw on the marrow of its blackened bones, feast on the weakened spawn of our destruction until nothing remains but empty, but us, but the everlasting silence of the beginning-_

Castiel bricks the wall over, shutting out the Voice again. No, there’s nothing out there coming for Dean, but he’s effectively disturbed. No magic goes unpunished here. There should be a backlash, a pulse, _something._

          “Uh, Cas?” Dean breaks into his reverie with a breathless groan. “I wouldn’t mind some assistance.”

          The sight of Dean shamelessly working blunt fingers into his hole, legs spread and cock pulsing red, un-disturbs Cas in a millisecond.

          Castiel kneels between Dean’s legs. When Dean starts pulling his fingers free, Cas stays his hand with a touch on the wrist. “Continue. I want to see you open yourself up for me.”

          “Man, you’re killin’ me here,” Dean groans. “I want to feel you.”

          “And you will. If you hurry, I’ll make sure you won’t stop feeling me for days.”

          Dean glares, but his lube-slickened fingers scissor into his opening, up to two now. Cas busies himself with kissing the back of Dean’s knee, the underside of his thigh.

          “Cas, please, I can’t,” Dean pleads. He’s a sweaty mess, fucking three fingers into himself and meeting them with his raised hips, almost like he’s about to-

          “That’s enough,” Cas barks.

          Dean stops, but a steady flow of precome dribbles from his cock, smearing across his stomach. Gently, Cas extracts Dean’s fingers from his opening and gets his hands on Dean’s ass, lifting him up to inspect the quality of his work.

          “How-are you-so-fucking- _calm_?” Dean growls. He’s got a fist around the base of his dick, and there’s a flush spreading from the base of his throat to his chest.

          Glancing meaningfully at his own cock, which is rigid and fit to drill through drywall, Cas replies, “I’m not. But I’m not just going to bend you in half and fuck you into the dirt like a wild animal.”

          Dean groans. “Why not? That sounds _awesome_.”

          It does, actually. He forgot what his argument was.

          Coating his erection with the ill-begotten lube, Castiel sinks into Dean in a single thrust. They both groan, ecstasy throbbing in Castiel’s gut as he’s enveloped in Dean’s heat. He moves slowly, dragging out until only the tip is inside Dean before seating himself fully again. He peppers Dean’s face with kisses, his eyelids, his flushed cheeks, his crooked nose, his pink lips, his quivering chin.

          Then he rears back, pushes Dean’s legs up and apart, and pounds into him like a man possessed.

          Dean’s back bows, a noise very close to a sob tearing from him. Cas folds over him, blanketing his body with his own while he fucks him with rough, snapping thrusts. He buries himself fully in Dean and circles his hips.

          “Fuck, _fuck_ ,” Dean gasps, nails scoring lines against Castiel’s back. He digs his heels into the swell of Cas’s ass and hisses, “Don’t fucking stop. Don’t you fucking stop fucking me.”

          “Has anyone mentioned you might have a cursing problem?” Cas gasps out. Dean rewards him by pulling his hair so hard that his scalp tingles.

          When Cas abruptlyy pulls out, he honestly thinks Dean will follow through and murder him. Unable to hold back his grin, he maneuvers Dean so he’s on all fours, forehead against the mattress and ass in the air.

          Cas slaps his flank lightly. Dean yelps and flexes, but not in protest. Interesting. There is a submissive aspect to Dean’s sexuality that Castiel is willing to bet has been heretofore neglected. Unfortunately, this isn’t the time to explore it.

          There won’t be a time, not with Cas, at least.

          Refusing to let melancholia ruin this, Cas drags reverent hands over Dean’s bowed back, up to the swell of his cheeks. He spreads them apart, wishing he had more time to push his face between them and eat Dean out until his knees fail and he’s a sobbing, pleading mess on the ground.

          He fucks Dean in this position, easily nailing his prostate with every thrust. The slap of skin against skin is obscenely loud, and Cas is momentarily apologetic for Sam’s ears. He’s not nearly troubled enough to ask Dean to quiet those delicious noises, though.

          “Cas, Cas, I’m gonna-I’m-” is the only warning Dean gives before he seizes, releasing a desperate cry as he fucks back on Castiel through his orgasm. Loathe as he is to end this, Cas can’t hold back with Dean thrusting back on him so urgently, spilling inside Dean with a guttural groan of his own.

          Once the world ceases its spinning, Cas gets up from he’s collapsed over Dean’s back to grope for the backpack. Thankfully, Castiel’s provisions for the trip included towels. They were intended more for stains and blood than cleaning come off the mattress, but here they are. Life is full of surprises.

 Dean is utterly limp, lying like a starfish while Castiel tenderly cleans between his thighs and his stomach.

          Dean’s glazed, sated eyes touch his, and a wash of masculine pride at leaving Dean so thoroughly fucked-out and languid has Cas pressing a kiss to the corner of Dean’s mouth before he balls up the towel and tosses it to the other side of the tent.

          They settle on the mattress so they’re face-to-face, Dean’s head pillowed on Castiel’s arm and his leg thrown over Castiel’s waist. The cooling sweat on his skin is almost enough to make him shiver.

“You’re kinda kinky, Cas.” Dean yawns. “I dig it.”

He pushes Dean’s hair back, following it down to cup his neck. “You think that’s kinky?”

          Dean pouts. A man with the brawn and power of Dean shouldn’t be allowed to be so damn _cute_. “Kinky by non-sex-maniac standards, yes.”

          There’s a feeling in Castiel’s chest as he kisses Dean’s frown away, feeling whole and steady. Being around Dean is like being wrapped in his favorite blanket on a chilly day, or sipping tea from his Debussy mug on a calm Saturday morning. Comforting. Warming him up on the inside and out. “I’ll turn you into a sex maniac yet, just you wait and see.”

          “Pretty sure I’m already there, pal,” Dean replies, pinching Castiel’s hip. There’s contentment in how he relaxes his body to sleep, trust in his tight grip around Castiel’s waist.

          “Dean,” Cas whispers.

          “Mmm?” Dean is on the brink of sleep.

          This is it. His last chance to say it. He wants to, so badly. The words are there, heavy on the tip of his tongue. _I love you, Dean. I’ve loved you since the moment you saw my darkness and stepped toward it. I knew I loved you when you tried to save the flowers in my garden, even knowing they might never live again._

“Goodnight,” Cas says instead, voice thick. He clears it, lest he alarm Dean. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

          There’s the soft sensation of Dean’s lips against his throat. “Night, Cas.”

          Castiel is not a coward. He doesn’t feel easily, and when he does, it’s too much. He won’t tell Dean he loves him, because Dean will _know_. He’ll know something’s wrong. That’s the only reason.

          So Castiel just waits until the man he loves drops to sleep, his breaths evening, the unconscious creases in his forehead smoothing out.

          He runs a thumb across his cheek. “I love you, Dean Winchester,” he whispers. “I would suffer my life a million times over, in a million different forms, if it meant being with you. You are the kindest, bravest, most selfless man I know. Thank you for giving me reason again.”

          Cas untangles himself from Dean with reluctance. Each new inch of space between them feels wrong, and Castiel rethinks his plan a million times in the time it takes to roll away from Dean.

          But of course, there’s no other way. He’s been over this from every angle, weighed the pros and cons. He didn’t make this decision lightly, no matter what Dean may think when he wakes up and discovers what Castiel has done.

          He’ll be so angry. He’ll rage, and blame himself, and drink until everything that makes him Dean is nothing but a drowning, maudlin mess.  

          Castiel dresses quickly, keeping his eyes firmly affixed on the dirt floor. He can’t look at Dean. He must stay the course.

          At the door of the tent, Castiel’s fingers convulse around the canvas. Against his better judgement, he glances back, indulging the ache that’s already opened in his chest.

          Dean is still soundly asleep. He hasn’t moved much except to shift closer to where Castiel had been lying, his nose in the pillow and the covers tangled around his bare legs. The elaborate compass tattoo against his strong chest rises and falls in slumber. The rings on his fingers, ever-present, glint in the dim light.

          It _hurts_. Rage rips through Castiel. Why shouldn’t he be allowed to keep Dean? If he’s always meant to suffer, if that is the permanent script for his life, then why did he bother getting sober? He could have razed his brain into nothingness with _Halo,_ let his conscious and all his earthly worries drift on silk-spun clouds of blissful delusion.

          What’s the point of making up for his sins if there is no redemption?

          Dean snorts, suddenly, startling Cas. He shakes his head, and for a heart-stopping moment, it seems like he’s waking up. But he only rumples his brow and burrows deeper into the pillow.

          In an instant, the rage evaporates. He may not have gotten much time with Dean, but there’s no doubt in his mind that he is Castiel’s reward. He is worth it all.

          The curtain makes no noise when it falls into place behind him. The light-bugs twinkle merrily as Castiel makes his way to Sam’s tent. It takes some finessing, but Cas manages to rouse Sam to the door without making enough noise to wake up Dean.

          Sam sticks his head out of the opening, his hair sticking every which way on his head and squinting comically. “Cas? What is it? Is everything okay?”

          “It’s your turn to take care of your brother, Sam.”

          Two long blinks, and Sam clicks online, alert and wary. He narrows his eyes. “What are you planning?”

          “There is no ritual. I know what Lana wants. I’m going to find her and bargain for your soul. Once the Marks disappear from your body, I need you take Dean and run.”

          “Cas-”

          “No. Listen to me. Knock him out and drag him if you have to, but _get him out._ He’ll want to come after me. You cannot let him. I need you both to leave this place alive.”

          When Sam speaks, his voice is small. “What about you?”

          Cas sighs. “I won’t be leaving.”

          Sam rubs his forehead viciously, gaze downcast and lips trembling. “This is all my fault. If I hadn’t been so _stupid_ , if I’d just told Dean I had a problem-”

          “Don’t make the same mistake,” Cas cuts him off. “I’m giving you a second chance. Dean needs you, and you need him. Do not abandon each other a second time.”

          “Cas, he…he needs you too. I don’t know if I can let you do this. He’ll kill me if he finds out I didn’t try to stop you.”

          The very idea of Sam going up against Castiel is endlessly amusing. “I overpowered you. I held you down. Lie, Sam. I don’t care. I have to go, but I need your reassurance that you’ll protect Dean. That you’ll get him off this damned land.”

          “This will break him, you know,” Sam says softly. “Losing you will break him.”

          Done with this, Castiel grabs Sam’s collar, hauling him a few inches upward to make sure he’s heard loud and clear. “Then you put him back together,” he hisses. “He can survive my loss. He cannot survive yours.”

          Dropping his hold, Cas straightens, leveling a stern glare at the disheveled boy. “Don’t let me down.”

          Reluctantly, like it’s costing him more than he can afford, Sam murmurs, “I won’t.”

          “Good. Zip up your tent, now. Be ready.” As an afterthought, he throws in, “And Dean is naked in our tent, by the way.”

          It is a testament to Sam’s state that he doesn’t even offer so much as a single ‘yuck’.

          “Goodnight, Sam Winchester. I hope you live a long, happy life.”

          “Thank you, Castiel,” Sam whispers, retreating into his tent. His shoulders are stooped, burdened by detested obligation. It touches Castiel, to learn how much Sam actually cares for him. He’d just assumed he was a means to an end for the younger Winchester. “For everything.”

          The flap of the canvas seals shut. Castiel is alone. Nowhere to go but to meet his fate.

          He starts walking, and hopes he hasn't kept it waiting long.

         

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhhhh! One last chapter!  
> I originally intended this to be the last chapter, and the next to be the epilogue, but it was looking like would stretch too far, so I decided to just let the next one be extra long.  
> As always, reading your comments gives me joy only paralleled by that of eating raw cookie dough at 3 am when no one can judge me.


	23. Sunset Eyes

Chapter 23- Sunset Eyes

The first time Castiel died, he was four. He hadn’t known life well enough by then to mourn its loss. He’d fallen beneath the still waters, fighting for air, struggling to surface. He’d burned for a breath. Just one.

          He never got it. Not until Dean Winchester knocked on his door and pulled him to the surface.

          Now he’s sinking back under, and he doesn’t know if he can fight this time around. What’s the point?

Sam is wrong; Dean will be fine without him. Any number of men or women would be lucky to have him. He’d go back to the way he was before he met Castiel, without the constant paranoia and anger that came part and parcel to being tied to the streaking meteorite magic of an X-Magi. He could talk about his partner without fear of potentially exposing them to the Keepers. They’d probably get along swimmingly with Sam.

          The Voice, which Castiel had broken the barrier against in order to locate Lana, snickers derisively in his mind. _Is that it? Or are you relieved you won’t have to see him die, like everyone else you’ve ever loved? That this time, you’re not the one being left behind, all alone?_

Castiel grits his teeth. It’s not like that. He’s not a coward. He’s not fleeing death. He’s tried that; there’s nowhere he can run.

          _You’ve tried fleeing Death. You’ve tried fighting it. Have you ever tried accepting it, Castiel?_

He’s had enough of this. He needs to find Lana, soon, before Dean wakes up and tracks him down. The territory is vast and unknown and sickly. Dean is a Slayer first, Magi second. He’s guided by his instincts, and he’ll slash and cut his way to Castiel, regardless of the demons that might rise from the debris.

          For once, Sam better do right by his brother and get them both out of here, safe and sound.

          _The First, he loved like you love,_ the Voice says suddenly, and if Castiel were less on edge, he might think it sounded contemplative. _He burned with it. When Death claimed her for the shadow realm, he went mad. He ravaged the Earth, to reach her in Death._

Castiel stops walking, startled. What? Cain lost his mind because the X magic was too much for him. Not from grief. At least, that’s what they’ve always been told.

          _A foolish child, you are,_ the Voice sneers. _Fed lies that you swallow with such ease. The First demeaned Death. He filled its dominions with souls it wasn’t meant to harvest. He screamed for his lost love, and for it, Death punished him. It cursed him with the Sight._

Castiel gasps in the empty woods. His arm shoots out, groping for the nearest tree while he scrambles to make sense of this. It can’t be true. He can’t-that doesn’t make any sense. He’s not related to Cain by blood. He knows this. He can’t have _inherited_ the Gift. He didn’t have it before he died. It was a fluke. An accident.

          _Accident? Fluke?_  The Voice is disgusted. _Magic is not a byproduct. It is not coincidence. It is fate. Destiny. One Castiel died. Another lived. Cain’s blood may not flow in your veins, but his magic is yours, as surely as his Sight is your Gift._

The Voice quiets, going deceptively gentle. _Is it not love that brings about your end, as surely as it brought his?_

His chest is tightening, his stomach contracting in a way that doesn’t bode well. Sure enough, he leans over and heaves. He hasn’t eaten since yesterday; the only thing to come up is acidic bile that he spits onto the dirt.

          “Shut up,” he says to nothing but the voice in his head. “Shut up and let me die in peace.”

          “Dying, you say?” says a voice that is most definitely not in his head. “Tell me more.”

          He straightens. Lana is leaning against a tree, arms crossed over her chest and a simpering smile on her red lips. Sarah stands behind her, head down, shoulders slumped. A whisper of the mighty princess that rose above nations in long-forgotten millennium.

          If he can, he’ll try to bargain for her, too.

          “I know what you want,” Castiel says. He rolls up his sleeves, slowly, carelessly, one careful fold at a time. “What you’ve been salivating over since you were freed from your desiccation.”

          Lana watches him, and if Castiel were someone else, he might almost believe that she was bored. He might not see the sharp hunger twisting her features into something ugly and predatory.

          “I’m afraid I haven’t the faintest clue what you’re talking about. As you can see, I’ve got all I need in Sarah here. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?” Without taking her eyes off Castiel, Lana reaches out, hand held in a loose curve. Sarah steps into the touch, obedient. When Lana caresses her face, Sarah meets Castiel’s gaze for the first time. The pain there is unbearable to witness. She looks away before he can, skittish and lost- and Castiel fears- irreparably broken.

          “Let’s not pretend. It’ll make this much easier.” Castiel tilts his head, his expression smoothing into blank nothingness. His smile is shark-like. “She can’t sustain you. Maybe back in your time, sure, but this new world you’ve woken up in? Where the weakest Magi child has more magic in their little finger than you? You’re running on scraps, Lana. How long will it last? How long can Sarah’s magic sustain you in this realm?”

          The only warning he gets are the tendrils of purple smoke that unfurl from her fingertips before he’s slammed backwards into the tree, a suffocating pressure crushing his windpipe. His neck strains, but he makes no move to fight off the invisible assailant, leering spitefully at Lana while the oxygen is punched from his lungs.

          “Do I seem _weak_ to you?” she hisses. “I saw the creation of this world. I will last through its end.”

          _Fight her,_ the Voice snaps. _Why are you docile? Fight!_

Lana drops her hold. Castiel sucks in enough air to say, “Don’t be so sure.”

          She rounds on him, but he’s faster, darting to the side. Next to Sarah. He claps a hand to her shoulder.

          “Careful. I don’t want to hurt her, but I will.”

          Lana scoffs. Her eyes narrow on Castiel. “You wouldn’t.” She doesn’t sound sure.

          The urge to throw his head back and laugh grips him. Hysteria. He’s sleep-deprived and his nerves have been sheared to the bare wires. Good-it’ll help sell her on the idea that he’s unhinged. As insane as the last man who almost killed her.

          He squeezes Sarah’s shoulder and arches a brow. She hasn’t moved, or reacted. It rattles Castiel to think this girl, this wisp of royalty, is beyond fear. Beyond caring. What Lana must have done to her, for all these centuries. Normally, Castiel would feel guilty about using her like this. But since walking away from the tent, from Dean, parts of Castiel have reverted to the person he used to be back in his criminal heyday. Numb. Ruthless.

          Veering towards certain chaos with a smile.

          “Wouldn’t I?” he returns. “I’m sure you’ve done your due diligence. You know my past.”

          “I do.” She has her arms stretched and raised slightly at her sides, purples smoke curling around her wrists, awaiting direction. “I also know you’ve been a good little boy for much time now. You save lives. You wouldn’t end sweet, innocent Sarah’s.”

          “Just because I learned to be good,” Castiel says, a dangerous, stupid course of action occurring to him, “doesn’t mean I ever stopped being bad.”

          Lana is poised like a serpent ready to strike. The slightest misstep and she’ll wipe him out. Castiel has to move lightning-fast if he’s going to succeed.

          _You are the blood of Cain,_ the Voice growls, almost startling Cas. _You_ will _succeed._

God forgive him for this.

          His arms burst into flames in the same nanosecond it takes to use his grip on Sarah’s shoulder to twist her down to her knees. He switches his hand to the top of her silky head. A priest bestowing benediction upon his supplicant.

          “One move, and I will incinerate her. Do not test me,” Castiel warns. The flames engulfing his arms leap, blazing red and blue, as if to emphasize his point.

          There’s rage darkening Lana’s features, something feral and old glistening in her alien eyes. “This is not why you came here, Castiel. You came to bargain for Samuel Winchester’s soul.”

          “Isn’t that what I’m doing? You free Sam, or I free her.”

          Through this, Sarah’s head has remained bowed, nearly limp in its ability to hold itself up. Now, it snaps up, almost dislodging Castiel’s hand. Brown eyes swimming with wretched hope bore into his, beseeching.

          Heavens. She _wants_ him to kill her.

          “That’s not how this works, child. If you kill Sarah, the only thing you’ll be doing is inviting me to harvest Sam’s soul faster. And harvest the souls of countless others to sustain myself. Can you imagine it, Castiel? All that blood on your hands. I would drench this drought-ridden land with it. Launch a siege the kinds of which your fragile mortal minds cannot conceive.”

          She bares her teeth, stepping closer. “And you know who be the second lost to my hunger?”

          It is immeasurably difficult to think when Sarah is staring at him like that, tears pouring down her sallow cheeks.

          “I wouldn’t just kill your lover. Dean, is it? No, him…him, I would keep. He can’t replace Sarah, he’s hardly go the magical capacity. But he would be fun for a few decades. I would strip his soul, bit by bit, until his only refuge is death. Is this what you want? Is this what you would bargain for?”

          Meg’s eyes had looked a lot like Sarah’s, when she slid to the floor beside him in that alleyway. Bleak. Empty. When she’d put her gloved hand in his and smiled, he’d seen something spark in her. Tiny, easy to miss, but a spark in dead eyes that mirrored his own.

          “Fuck,” Castiel eloquently.

          _What are you-NO! IDIOT!_ The Voice howls.

          Castiel melts Meg’s amulet in his fist and claps the burning remnants over Sarah’s mouth. The liquified metal drips down the girl’s chin as she twists beneath Castiel’s grip, lips parting in a silent cry.

          “What are you doing?” Lana shrieks, fearful, and strides toward them. “She is _mine_!”

          “ _Ro’oh_ ,” Castiel murmurs. Release. Spirit. A blast knocks him to the dirt, agony screaming in his body under the oppressive, clawing wall of Lana’s magic. Even as he struggles under the onslaught, hot tears rolling down his temples and into the dirt, Castiel laughs. He laughs with wild abandon, because she’s too late.

          Meg’s sacrifice, her Last Breath, lights Sarah from the inside out. As Lana reaches her subject, reaching for her, Sarah rises lithely and catches the hand Lana extends to her.

          Her hair shimmers, falling to her waist in a rich curtain. Pure Old Realm magic pours from her. The air is hazy with it. When Sarah speaks, her voice is granite. “I will never be yours again.”

          “Sarah, sweetheart,” Lana tries, but Sarah launches her through two trees with a flick of her wrist. The thick crack of the trees breaking in half and cascading backwards as Lana’s body projectiles through them only makes Castiel laugh harder as his vision starts to spot.

          The seething blanket of pain breaking Castiel apart cell-by-cell vanishes. He slumps into the dirt, gasping, as Sarah crouches beside him.

          She lays a soft hand against his cheek. “Thank you. Your friend’s Last Breath…I will forever be in your debt for this gift.”

          “Can you stop her?” Cas grunts, hauling himself upright on shaky arms. “You’re powerful enough to kill her.”

          Sarah helps him to his feet. She’s beautiful, freed from the clasps of slavery, the markings of nobility governing her decisive movements. Health lends her cheeks a rosy glaze; power sparks in her once-fragile bones. From a sparrow to a swan. “I am afraid that is beyond my abilities. I’m not meant for this time. Her magic granted me immortality; I am not sure what will become of me now. But I do know I must leave this land immediately, lest it speed time to catch up with me.”

          The fallen trees quake. Castiel wipes blood from his chin and smiles at Sarah. “Go in peace, Princess Sarahend.”

          She kisses his cheek and hovers by ear. Ahead, branches snap in quick succession. “You are worthy of him, Castiel Krushnic,” she whispers.

          The trees are promptly obliterated, chunks of wood raining around them. Castiel throws his arm over his face, rocking back on one foot. When he looks up, Sarah is gone, and Lana is inches from his face. Rage pulses from her, her volatile magic seething with it.

          “You _fool_. I was going to wait for you to give me your soul willingly. I was going to grant you the mercy of an easy death. But now? After this?” she snarls. Bony fingers wrap around Castiel’s throat. “I’ll rip it from your sorry carcass, and once I’ve gluttoned myself on your magic, I’ll hunt down your precious lover and his brother and use your magic to rip them to pieces.”

          Castiel’s hand flies to her wrist, trying to push off her chokehold, but she is strong. Impossibly so. For the second time, he finds himself desperate to breathe. Except now, he’s significantly weaker, his body exhausted from fighting off the viperous magic she’d thrown like cannons at him.

          _You are Cain’s. What was his, is yours. Use it.,_ the Voice murmurs, and Castiel feels it guiding him to cast his gaze downward.

          His blood is there, dark and soaked into the dirt ground.

          _What was his, is yours._

          As his eyes threaten to roll to the back of his head, Castiel lips spread in a feral grin.

          He has just enough breath left in his lungs to spit out one phrase.

          _“Ahya wa as’ma_ ,” he gurgles. _Arise and heed._

          Arise and heed.

          The world begins to end.

          Lana stumbles, her grip loosening in shock enough for Castiel to dislodge her and slam his fist into her chest, sending her careening backwards. He drinks the air in greedily as the silent woods of the Demarcation are torn in half, the trees groaning, the wind shrieking, the ground quaking beneath them.

          Beings take shape from the soil, rising as quickly as Castiel’s parchment creatures.  But these creatures aren’t made of paper; they are the salt and earth of the Demarcation, of mad magic and the legacy of Castiel and Cain.

          _What was his, is yours._

Lana claps her hands in front of her and bellows a word, something ancient and unrecognizable to Castiel’s ears. The shadow entities that had climbed from the maw of the abyss assemble, a dozen to one of Castiel’s creatures, twisting and writhing within themselves.

          “ _Occidmut_ ,” Castiel commands, and his warriors explode into action, attacking the shadows with singular determination.

          As Lana attempts to cut her way to him through the battle, evading the swipes and blows of Castiel’s soldiers, something on the edge of the clearing draws Castiel’s attention.

          There’s a rustle, small enough to be an accident, but Castiel knows it is not. He knows, because in this moment, he _is_ the Demarcation. He is the wind that tears through his hair. He is the ground that rocks beneath their feet.

          What he is _not_ , is the rustle on the edge of the clearing.

          The answer comes a second later, when two familiar heads come into sight, brandishing swords and grim expressions.

          Dean’s gaze finds Castiel, clinically checking over him in the span of a heartbeat, before meeting his eyes. His are livid, but relieved. Castiel’s are drowning in horror.

          “Nice trick,” Lana snaps, reaching him with nary a hair out of place. Castiel doesn’t think she’s noticed their latest arrivals, who are systematically cutting through her shadow creatures. Dean’s jewel-encrusted sword slices through the shadows, hacking off whatever material gives them shape and essence. One appears behind him, but he’s twisting and dropping to one knee in an instant, driving the sword up through what could be its chest. It disintegrates on his blade.

          “Erase the Marks from Sam Winchester, and I may let you live,” Castiel says. He shuffles backwards, further from the fight raging beyond them and the potential of Sam or Dean appearing in her periphery.

          She throws her head back in a laugh. “Will you? How kind.”

          The false amusement dies away, leaving only ice and merciless wrath. “I grow bored of this game. You’ve taken my Sarah. You insult me. Your soul, the magic of the First, is mine.”

          Dean is much too close. There’s deadly intent in his grace, in the havoc he wreaks. A divine siege of retribution, clearing a path for the damned to burn. Castiel’s creatures don’t go near Dean, but Castiel spots Sam darting away from shadow and earth alike.

          “Come and get it, then,” Castiel taunts, arms held wide. “All you’ve done so far is talk at me. My magic is right here, ripe for siphoning.”

          A shadow creature rakes bloody talons down Sam’s back. Sam’s pained shout and Dean’s curse are loud. Loud enough, that without turning around, a knowing smile distorts Lana’s face.

          “Oh, Castiel. Brash bravery to protect them. Don’t you know it’s only a matter of time for them too? You’ve never been able to save those you loved. What makes you believe this time is any different?”

          Fire burns through Castiel, boiling in his veins. He can’t let her live. Lana has to die. There’s no alternative. Otherwise, she’ll cash in Sam’s Marks and Dean…she’ll do unspeakable things to Dean.

          She has to die.

          “All you are is a leech,” Castiel snarls. “Secondhand, unworthy. Hera stripped you of your powers and Zeus threw you a kernel of pity, and you’ve been a beggar since, taking from others what you can never have. I pity you, _l’ana_.”

          Lana’s features lose any pretense of humanity, the venomous skeletons of her hunger terrible to behold. She is as empty as the abyss stretching around the Demarcation, and when she punches her fist into Castiel’s chest, he feels that emptiness sickening inside him.

          “NO! _CAS!_ ” Dean roars. His anguish hurts Castiel more than anything else he’s endured.

          He did not want Dean to watch him die.

          Lana’s lips part, whispering saccharine invitations, and Castiel’s magic revolts inside him. He grits his teeth, nostrils flaring from the effort of keeping his powers at bay.

          He falls to one knee, sweeping Lana down with him. Unlocking his jaw, he allows tendrils of the swirling mosaic of his soul to seep out. They slip into Lana’s mouth, and she leers her satisfaction, fingers flexing in his chest.

          Castiel barely gets to enjoy the stunned disbelief that crosses her expression when his magic turns into poison inside her. She seizes, falling backwards onto the dirt, her fist sliding slickly from Castiel’s chest. Her bloody fingers curl. “What…have…you… _done_?” she howls, clawing at her skin.

          The wound in Castiel’s chest repairs itself enough that blood does not pour, but only leaks sluggishly down his stomach. His magic has never been so near to him, on the surface of his skin, in the blood dampening his clothes.

          “Now that you’ve had a taste.” He craws next to her head, battered with a macabre mirth grabbing hold of him. “My turn.”

          Castiel holds both hands over Lana’s writhing form and parts his lips. Her soul is ancient, weighed with sins and atrocities that make Castiel glad he couldn’t throw up earlier. He heaves, pries at the corners, gaining the revolting substance of _l’ana_ , the Siphon, the Child-Eater, the Plague of Mankind. He invites it into himself, taking back what the original immortals had so foolishly bestowed, what she had slaughtered civilizations to preserve.

          Lana jerks like a marionette while Castiel absorbs more and more of her rotten soul. Her magic beats inside him, pounding against his ribs, imploding. He can’t sustain it for long. But he must endure long enough to make sure there is nothing left to her, that her threat is forever eliminated, before he can succumb to the scorching, heaving magic inside him.

          Lana’s movements slow. Her head lolls to the side, her eyes draining of ill-begotten life as Castiel wages the hardest battle of his life, his skin bubbling with Lana’s magic as it pounds for freedom from his mortal vessel.

          Castiel knows Lana is dead when blood rains down his cheeks. Around them, the shadow creatures dissipate into mist. Castiel’s earth creatures converge into one, and return to the earth.

          “Cas? Cas!” Dean skids to his knees in front of Castiel, gripping him tightly. Keeping him upright, Castiel notes absently. “Fuck, Sam, his eyes are bleeding!”

          Fingers card through his hair, forcing Castiel to peel his eyes open. Green eyes, beautiful and frantic and stricken. Dean. His Dean.

          “Cas, tell me what to do. I don’t know what to do!”

          “I think….” Sam crouches beside them, and to Dean’s shock and Castiel’s apathy, he swipes a droplet of blood from Castiel’s chin. He analyzes it. Castiel’s chin droops. Dean yanks him upward.

          Why won’t Dean just pull him in and let Castiel die in the comfort of his arms? He wants to feel the soft leather of Dean’s jacket against his cheek. He wants to smell Dean’s soap and hear his heartbeat.

          “There’s too much,” Sam says suddenly, urgently. “He’s got both her magic and his bottled up inside, and it’s burning through him. He can’t take it.”

          Dean’s curses a blue streak. “What do we do? How do we get her magic out of him?”

          Castiel coughs wetly. Blood spatters onto Dean’s shirt. A shame. It’s his Led Zeppelin shirt.

          “Hurry, Sam!”

          “There would have to be another X-range he could split it with. Anyone else won’t survive. I don’t-I don’t know, Dean. I don’t know.”

          “What are you saying? That’s he’s going to die? He’s not going to fucking _die,_ Sam! Think! There has to be a way!”

          “Dean,” Castiel groans, low and scraped. The magic is flaring, readying itself for another attack that Castiel knows he will not withstand. He has to say it now, before it’s too late.

          “You’re going to be okay, Cas,” Dean says fiercely. “We’re gonna get this thing out of you.”

          “I love you,” Castiel says. _And that’s what she said,_ he wants to add, but his tongue has stopped functioning right in his mouth.

          “Shut up. Shut your stupid mouth. You can tell me you love me at dinner or in bed or when we’re gardening your stupid fucking flowers. Not here. Not now.”

          “Dean,” Sam says, softly, the tentative voice of a man handling the newly bereaved. “I think-”

          “Give it to me,” Dean blurts. His expression morphs, alighting with animation. With hope. “Give the excess to me.”

          “Are you insane?!” Sam jumps in for Castiel. “It’ll kill you! Castiel is an X, Dean! His magic will incinerate you!”

          Dean bares his teeth at his brother. “I. Don’t. Care.”

          He forces Castiel’s gaze to his. “C’mon, Cas. Give it to me. Give me what’s killing you.”

          No.

          “Do it, you stubborn bastard. I can do this. Let me do this. I won’t fail you.”

          You could never fail me.

          “Please, Cas,” Dean begs. Tears fall from his eyes, carving Castiel hollow even as he’s exploding at the seams. “Let me save you.”

          _Do it,_ the Voice whispers. _You’ve saved him and his own. He can save you._

He will die.

          _He might,_ the Voice concedes. _But…I don’t think he will._

It has to be now. The magic surges up and over Castiel like an almighty tidal wave. He makes a split-second decision he prays he doesn’t come to regret.

 He parts his lips, and pure, blinding, white light floods the scopes of his vision.

          Sam is thrown back from the force of the light. It burns clean the world around them. Dean’s hold on Castiel spasms as Castiel’s magic purifies Lana’s and funnels into his body. The burden inside Castiel lifts, agonizing inch by inch, until Castiel can finally, finally breathe.

          He inhales once, long and deep. Dean is upright, but his hands have slid from Castiel. His head is thrown back, waves of brilliant gold exploding around him. Like he’s swallowed the sun. In the searing glow, Castiel is washed clean. Remade divine.

Powerful, electrifying, and wholly _living_ green eyes are the last thing Castiel sees before he hits the ground. As his world goes dark, he thinks he hears the Voice chuckling softly.

_That’s what I thought._

 

 

 The world has run its course, and all that is left is darkness.

          Castiel isn’t aware of opening his eyes. He isn’t sure he still _has_ eyes. He sits up rapidly. Instead of tremendous pain, he only feels soothing calm. Two hands. Two feet. The hole in his chest is gone, not even a scar to be felt beneath Castiel’s probing fingers.

          Oh. He gets it. This is the other side.

          Damn it to hell. Dean watched him die after all.

          The surroundings are unexpectedly stark. Emptiness so complete it’s oppressive. Weren’t there only three options? Heaven, hell, or nothingness?

          Theologists are going to be in for quite a surprise when they bite it, too.

          He’s dead. He’s _dead_. Right?

          “You’re not dead, Castiel,” a voice says in the darkness. An achingly familiar, huffy, youthful voice. “Jeez, you’re still such a drama queen.”

          She emerges from the nothing looking exactly same as the day she died. A beanie is tugged low over her ears. She’s wearing ratty jeans and a shirt with obscene words Castiel still wishes she’d reconsider.

          “Is it really you?” Cas asks, trying to maintain an appropriate level of suspicion and failing miserably. If its not her, if this is a hallucination or some cruel trick, Castiel’s gonna slam it to the other side of this void.

          Claire grins cheekily. “In the flesh, so to speak.”

          She drops into a cross-legged position in front of him. Castiel wants to reach out and touch her. Reassure himself this isn’t an illusion. But if she’s lying, and none of this is real…he’d like it to last, just a little longer.

          “Where are we?” Castiel asks.

          “An in-between land. A couple souls get stuck here now and then, and the Reaper decides who gets knocked back down and who’s heading upstairs.”

          “I don’t understand. Am I dead?”

          She squints. “Are you going deaf in your old age? I said no. You’ve still got a pulse down there.” She gestures in the general area of the nonexistent floor.

          “Claire,” Cas exhales. “I’ve missed you.”

          She chews her lip before sighing and replying, “I missed you too, Cas.”

          “Why are you here? Are you…having trouble moving on?”

          Unbidden, Claire’s last moments play like a reel through Castiel’s mind. Cas shouting at her to quit acquiring the _Halo_ he’d stopped selling her a long time ago, and a strung-out Claire hitting his chest with feeble fists and refusing. When her body had gone stiff and she’d collapsed in Castiel’s arms, he’d felt like _he_ was the one whose heart was failing. Whose life was ending.

          Then _it_ appeared, billowing and absolute, and Castiel saw Claire’s soul leave her body, knew the glowing essence was her spirit, and he’d fought. He’d reached for it, desperate, reckless. Held his arms out to death and demanded it give back what it was meant to take. Unaffected, the thing vanished, taking Claire with him. Leaving Castiel nothing but a limp body to weep over.

          Wincing, Claire fidgets with the holes in her jeans. “Yeah, not my finest hour. But Cas, you know that wasn’t your fault, right?”

          Castiel’s eyes fill with tears embarrassingly fast. “How can you say that? I had a direct hand in your demise.”

          She’d been like a daughter to him, and he’d let her down. He failed her in the worst way.

          “Don’t be dumb. You knew it was my time. _My_ time, got nothing to do with you. I would’ve been hit by a bus or choked on a taco. As fickle fortune would have it, it ended up being _Halo_ that did me in. You’re guilty of a lot of things, Cas, but I’m not one of them.”

          “Claire…”

          “Are you still wearing that ugly ass trench coat around?” she interrupts. “The tan one that makes you look like a shapeless pervert?”

          He’s momentarily distracted by annoyance. “It’s a nice coat. I’ve gotten compliments on it.”

          “From perverts at perverts anonymous?”

          “You’re one to talk! Your shirt is quite graphic, in case you haven’t noticed.”

          She plucks the material with a smirk. “Yeah, but I’m young and cute and I can pull it off. Frankly, I’m amazed you landed Dean Winchester while wearing that horrendous thing. Must be true love.”

          “How do you know about Dean?” Dean. His heart lurches painfully. He tries to ignore the tightness in his chest.

          “We _all_ know about Dean. The big, bad Slayer and the X-Magi, former criminal turned do-gooder. It was front page news.” Claire stuffs a few stray blonde strands under her beanie and shrugs. “And I might peek in on you now and then, make sure you haven’t done something completely idiotic.” 

          Castiel draws his knees to his chest. Thinking about Dean hurts somewhere deep, where he can’t reach. “I’m hardly a do-gooder. I helped Sam because I love Dean. Not what one would call altruistic.”

          “What about the people you’ve saved with your medicines? The cures you’ve invented? Meg and Sarah?”

          He laughs once, a sharp sound. “I don’t know which episode you’re on, but Meg is dead. She died because of me.”

          Groaning theatrically, Claire covers her face and shakes her head. “God, you’re such a self-deprecating ding-dong. You did not put _Halo_ into my system. You didn’t ask Meg to come with you to save Sam. You should know better than anyone that things happen because they’re meant to. No rhyme or reason to it. You are one person. You think you can go up against the order of the universe? Change it?”

          When Castiel continues glaring at his legs, Claire scoots closer and places her hand on his elbow. “Do you blame me for taking _Halo_ that day, even though you’d warned me my time was coming?”

          Castiel’s head snaps up. “Of course not.”

          “Why not? I should have known better. I _did_ know better.”

          Castiel tucks her hair behind her ear, adjusting her beanie when it threatens to slip off. “You made mistakes, but you did the best you could. I never once faulted you, sweetheart.”

          Assessing him, Claire tilts her head in consideration. She’d picked up the habit from him, and Castiel can’t help but experience a flush of pride. “When Dean dies, will it be your fault?”

          An electric current of fear makes Castiel go rigid. “Dean’s not dead. Right? He’s not. He was breathing when I-he’s okay, he’s-”

          “I asked you a question. Will it be your fault when Dean dies?”

          Castiel grinds his teeth. He doesn’t like this game. He knows what she’s trying to do, and he wishes she’d quit it already. “I don’t know when Dean is meant to die. I don’t know anything about it.”

          Claire’s on her knees by his shoulder, and she sits back on her heels with a self-satisfied gleam at his response. “You can’t see his expiration date. Didn’t you ever wonder why that was?”

          “Of course-”

“Or why he’s still living after absorbing your amplified magic, which would have obliterated an army of the most powerful Magi? And let’s be honest, Dean’s great at a lot of things, but magic is not his strong suit.”

          “What’s your point, Claire?”

          “Think, Cas. Can you see your expiration date?”

          “Obviously not. I can’t see my own soul.”

          “And can you see _Dean’s_ expiration date?”

          Brows slamming together in the first twinges of anger, Castiel growls, “Are you being purposely obtuse?”

          “I could ask you the same! Come on, dude. Put the damn pieces together.”

          “I can’t see my own soul. I can’t see Dean’s expiration date, which should be stamped on his soul. What, Dean and I have the same soul? We’re co-mortgaging one?”

          “Ugh! I’d punch you in the throat if I knew you could bleed right now!” Claire shrieks. “He’s your soulmate, you utter buffoon!”

          Castiel draws up short. Soulmate? “Those don’t exist.”

          “Yeah, they do. You were lucky enough that yours found you, and he’s pretty awesome, Cas.”

          None of this makes sense. “So I can’t see his expiration because we…share a soul?”

          “Not quite. Your souls are mirrors of one another. Your magic can’t hurt him, because it’s part of you, and you’re part of him.” She rubs her temples. “You were supposed to figure this out on your own, but I’m out of patience and I’m remembering why you were always single.”

          Absurdly, Cas says, “I wasn’t single.”

          “My bad. Big slut.”

          Cas takes a playful swipe at her, but she ducks in time and sticks her tongue out at him.

          Sobering, Claire glances behind her and smiles wistfully. “I’ve got to be heading back soon. Remember what I told you, okay? We choose our own paths. Don’t reduce us into burdens to place on your back. Otherwise, you’ll be dragging Dean down with you, and he deserves better than that, doesn’t he?”

          He swallows. “Yes. He does.”

          She punches his arm lightly. “And for the love of guac, man, get over my death already. I’m fine. Honest. I don’t have regrets. I want to check in on you without feeling like I’m watching a gloomy soap opera.”

          Ah, Claire, still with her abrasive, off-the-shoulder affection. “I’ll do my best.”

          “Good.” She kisses his cheek and gets to her feet. Cas mimics her, wrapping his arms around her smaller form. She buries her face in his chest and sniffs. “Love you.”

          “I love you, too.”

         

         

††††††††   †††††††   ††††  †††††  ††††††

 

          The axe whistles through the air, cleaving the wooden stump in two.

          “Dean,” Sam says, possibly for the second time. Dean ignores him and sets up the next log. He aims the axe, squinting slightly, and swings.

          “Dean!” His pain-in-the-ass little brother crosses his arms in front of the logs, forcing Dean’s attention to him. “Aren’t you gonna check on Cas?”

          “Checked on him earlier. No change.” Pale and still and dead to the world, for all appearances. Only a faint pulse and miniature puffs of air convince Dean that he’s not gone. Not yet, anyway.

          He shoves Sam to the side. “He needs a backyard. Who has a front yard and not a backyard? The neighbors can see everything.”

          Sam sighs, dropping his indignant stance. “Cas doesn’t have neighbors.”

          “It’s the principle.”

          “Dean-”

          “That’s my name. Don’t wear it out.”

          “I know what you’re doing, and it’s not gonna work. He’ll be okay.”

          Chuckling bitterly, Dean hitches the axe higher on his shoulder. “That right? It’s been four days since we left the Demarcation, Sam. Kevin barely fixed the hole in his chest and no one knows what kind of shape his magic his is in after he drained Lana. Odds aren’t too hot on this one.”

          “But he’s alive. None of that stuff killed him. He’s hanging in there, and aggressively chopping wood at two in the morning isn’t what either of you needs.”

          They’re both silent, Dean resolutely ignoring Sam, and Sam watching Dean with resignation.

          “Maybe I shouldn’t have told you what he was planning.”

          Dean points the axe at Sam, a snarl curling his lips. “You should have told me sooner.”

          The next swing misses the log completely. Dean hurls the axe in the brick enclosing, grief boiling in his chest, lined in rage and regret. He should have gotten there quicker. Should have figured Cas would do something self-sacrificing and noble and dumb as fuck. Instead, he slept, while Cas fought for all their lives.

          All he could do was watch while Lana shoved her hand into Castiel’s chest. Watch while blood dripped from Castiel’s eyes. He took the magic from him, thought that would be enough, but Castiel fell and he didn’t get back up.

          All Dean is good for is watching while he loses the ones he loves. First Dad, now Cas. Both consequences of his failure.

          Sam’s got the constipated look he wears before launching into another preachy lecture. Dean’s not in the mood. Tearing the sweaty tank from his head, he lumbers into the house and shuts the bedroom door, childishly sliding the lock shut.  

          He doesn’t look at Cas on the bed, cocooned in bee-themed covers, messy dark hair a depressing contrast to the chalky hue of his skin. Gathering the things he needs for a shower, he curses when he drops a box of Cas’s socks. He’s reaching for his sweats to slide them off when he hears a cough behind him.

          The shower utensils go flying as Dean whirls, heart suddenly pounding a terrified staccato against his ribs. He’s bracing himself, preparing for the crippling disappointment of a false alarm.

          Sky blue eyes blink sleepily at him. “Dean?” Cas rumbles, voice gravelly and hoarse.

          Dean can’t believe it. He’s awake. He’s….probably really thirsty. He’d watched something about newly awoken coma patients and chips of ice and if he stands here gawking much longer, Cas might slip back to sleep to escape the awkwardness. “Don’t move. I’ll- let me get you a glass of water.”

          Dean spins uselessly a few times, too scared to leave Cas alone to go to the kitchen. He opts to fill the mug on Castiel’s bedside table from the bathroom sink instead. The water sloshes in Dean’s unsteady grip. He returns to Castiel’s side in record time, releasing a breath he didn’t know he was holding when he finds Cas still awake.

          He barely takes a few sips before he’s trying to sit up. Dean unfreezes, pushing Cas back down gently. “Whoa there, cowboy. You’re still pretty out of it. Relax. Get your bearings.”   

          Dean sits on the edge of the mattress, fussing with the covers and looking anywhere but at Cas while he tries to figure out whether he’s about to cry like a giant sissy or punch Cas back into a coma.

          “This is my Debussy mug,” Cas says. He inspects the mug, baffled and elated. “I thought…no, I know this broke during my fight with Alistair.”

          “I fixed it. Are you cold? Should I get you another blanket?”

          “This couldn’t have been easy,” Cas says, staring owlishly at Dean. For a hot minute, Dean wonders if he knocked himself on the head with the axe earlier. Cas is here, Cas is alive, Dean’s world isn’t falling apart anymore, and they’re discussing his goddamn singing mug?

          “Sam showed me a spell. It doesn’t matter. I know you love it, so I put it back together for you. In case you woke up.”

          And just like that, something hot swells in Dean’s traitorous eyes. He quickly stands, scratching his neck and studying the floor with abject fascination. “I should go let Sam know you’re awake. He’s been stressed, you know, babbling on and chewing your buddy Kevin’s ear off about meds and healing and the like. Yeah, I’ll just go tell him right now.”

          He’s undone the lock when he’s stopped in his tracks by his name, uttered softly. Fondly.

          Nuh-uh. Dean is not gonna throw a hissy-fit, there will be _no_ dramatic reunion, with teary confessions and _clenching embraces_ or anything of the sort. Not on his watch.

          He swivels, pointing at Cas accusingly. “You need a backyard. How am I supposed to chop wood in your tiny front yard where God and the rest of mankind can see me? You need a backyard so I can safely store my wood, Cas.”

          Expression completely serious, Cas deadpans, “That’s what he said.”

          They stare at each other.

          The dumb joke that doesn’t even make any sense is what undoes Dean. He shoves the heels of his hands into his eyes, shoulders bowing under the crushing relief he hadn’t let himself feel.

          He’s okay. He’s okay. _He’s okay._

He doesn’t know if he means himself or Cas or both.

          “Dean…”

          “’m not crying. Your stupid ceiling is leaking. I’m gonna have to patch it up, and it’s winter, Cas, and you still haven’t set your fucking thermostat and I tried to do it while you were out and I nearly cooked me and Sam and now I have to repair your leaking ceiling in the middle of winter and freeze my nipples off.”

          “That would be a shame. I’m quite partial to your nipples.”

          “It’s _not funny!”_ Dean booms. “None of this is a joke! You almost died, you dumb bastard! What were you thinking? No, don’t tell me, you were gonna go heroically save the day and die in the process. Right?”

          Cas doesn’t speak a word, merely sitting back while Dean rails at him. “What if your plan worked, Cas? Did you think about what that would do to me? Huh? I’ve been walking around with my insides carved out for four fucking days and if it’d been up to you, I’d be hollow and halved for the rest of my lie.”

          “I’m sorry. I was wrong.”

          Dean stops, his lips pursing as Castiel steals the wind from his sails. “Are you actually sorry? Cause this is just another number to add to the pattern.”

          “I am. I’m so sorry, Dean,” Cas says earnestly. He’s making it hard to stay mad at him, the asshole. “I was only trying to protect you, but I see now that I was being selfish. You’re strong, and capable, and you make your own path.”

          A muscle jumps in Dean’s jaw. Cas’s lean fingers wind around themselves nervously.

          “Dumbass,” Dean grinds, finally, and crawls onto the mattress to carefully push Cas into the pillows and cover his mouth with his own.

          The kiss is filled with relief, with promise and forgiveness and warmth. Dean runs his tongue over the cracks in Castiel’s chapped lips and cups his jaw, smoothing a thumb down the bristles of an emerging beard.

          When Dean pulls back, he spears Castiel with a glare. “Never do that again.”

          Dazed, Cas licks his lips. “Alright.”

          Dean’s dipping down for another kiss when something occurs to him. Nerves almost have him backing out, but after almost losing Cas, he’s got to man up and say what damn well needs to be said.

          “By the way, I uh, I love you too.”

          To his chagrin, Cas doesn’t react, only watches Dean with a small, oddly knowing smile. Dean, of course, takes the fast lane to Assville. “If you still mean it, anyway, you said it in the heat of the moment and it’s okay if you didn’t mean it, but I do and I thought it ought to be said. I’m gonna make out with you now, thanks.”

          Cas stops him by planting his hand on his face and nudging him back up. “I adore you, Dean Winchester. I love you and I cherish you and I’m going to spend however long we’re prescribed of this life in love with you. And when we die, I’ll find you and love you in the next life, too.”

          Uh. Wow. That’s-huh. He wants to reply in kind, rhapsodize about Cas and the flowers he loves so much that Dean’s perpetually resuscitating because they _keep fucking dying_ and his confused head tilt and his ass-ugly coat that he’s just gotta wear in the nude with a pair of cowboy boots sometime cause Dean thinks he might’ve developed a kink for the flappy old thing. The furrow in his brow when he’s sweating over a new recipe in his cauldron room, or the foods he buys with Grace under the pretense of treating Dean when in reality Dean just thinks Cas has a French cuisine fetish. The minty smell of Rumrot that lingers on his clothes along with the smell of rain and tea and lightning, somehow. The patience he shows Sam when Sam’s being a nitwit and the lengths he’ll go for his loved ones, even when it results in incidents of near death. How lucky Dean feels to be loved by this man, this marvel, this miracle that upended Dean’s life and turned him on his head.

          “Right back atcha, buddy,” Dean says instead, and Cas winks, and then Dean is on him like white on rice.

          They’re too absorbed excavating the contents of each other’s mouths and over-the-cover groping to notice the sound of the door opening.

          “What the-DEAN! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?”

Oh. Oops. Knew he forgot something. Sheepishly shoving off Cas, who sends Sam a jolly wave, Dean grins widely at his mortified baby brother.

          “Cas! Oh!  I’m so glad you’re awake. Sorry I shouted, I thought-I didn’t you were conscious and Dean was-”

          “I’m happy to see you’re well, Sam. If you’d like to take a seat, we could explore some views on somnophilia. I, for one, am a proponent of-”

          “THAT’S OKAY,” Sam hollers, rapidly backtracking. “I’m gonna make some tea. You like tea, right? Herbal? Chai? Lipton? I’ll surprise you.”

          He slams the door behind him, and Dean bursts into hysterics. He’s so busy busting a gut he doesn’t notice that Cas is ramrod straight against the headboard, staring after Sam with disbelief.

          Concern crowds everything else out. “Cas? What’s wrong?”

          “I…I didn’t see it, Dean.”

          “See what?”

          “His expiration,” Cas breathes. “I didn’t see Sam’s expiration date.”

          Dean doesn’t know what to make of that. Another exception, maybe? But that doesn’t make any sense; Cas saw Sam’s expiration just fine before. “That’s weird.”

          Lost in thought, Cas brushes his knuckles over his eyes absently. “When I absorbed Lana’s magic and gave half of it to you…I felt repaired. Like everything was wiped clean and I was starting again.”

          “A new life,” Dean ventures. “Your eyes were bleeding, too. Think that’s got something to do with it?”

          He shakes his head, not in disagreement, but in absence of an answer. “I don’t know. I gained my Gift when I died. It was Cain’s, he passed it to me…if I died, again, maybe I lost it.”

          All this talk of death is setting Dean on edge. “You didn’t die, Cas.”

          “No, I didn’t. I went…to the in-between.”

          Fuck. He should call Kevin. He’d seemed fine when he woke up, but Cas’s head must still be foggy from the fight.

          “I don’t know,” Cas bursts. Wild, joyful, his grip on Dean’s shoulder is bruising. “I don’t know anything anymore. I can’t know.”

          “…Yay?”

          Cas whoops, startling the bejeesus out of Dean. Despite his complete bewilderment, Dean smiles down at the absurdly gleeful love of his life. “Guess we have to thank Sam for interrupting us, after all.”

          That seems to remind Cas of exactly what Sam interrupted, and Cas beckons for Dean to close the gap between them.

He’s still definitely calling Kevin for that head check, but…maybe later.

 “If I’d known all it took to get rid of your brother was some sex talk, we could’ve solved a lot of problems,” Cas says while Dean rolls back to his original position, hovering over Cas and wiggling his brows.     

 Cas gazes into eyes, searching. He guides a reverent palm along Dean’s cheek, like he’s tracing the finest of jewels, apparently satisfied in what he finds. Or doesn’t.

“Now,” Cas says, yanking Dean down with renewed vigor. “Where were we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot believe I wrote a 100k fic. WHAT THE ACTUAL FRICK FRACK??   
> Thank you guys so much for reading and taking a chance on this WIP. Your comments and kudos have meant the world to me. This was truly a labor of love, and I hope it didn't disappoint!
> 
> If you'd like to find me on [tumblr](https://atarnishedcompass.tumblr.com/) to ask questions, chat, or generally angst about the state of destiel, I'm always around and I'd love to hear from ya. I love y'all like Sam loves chick flick moments.
> 
> *finger guns out of the shot*


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